r 

THE    MOUNTAIN 
SCHOOL-TEACHER 


/ 


,  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES' 


By 
MELVILLE  DAVISSON   POST 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SCHOOL- 
TEACHER 

THE  SLEUTH  OF 
ST.   JAMES'S    SQUARE 

THE  MYSTERY  AT   THE 
BLUE  VILLA 

UNCLE  ABNER, 
MASTER  OF  MYSTERIES 

These  Are  Appleton  Books 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 


T232B 


THE  MOUNTAIN 
SCHOOL-TEACHER 

BY 

MELVILLE  DAVISSON  POST 

AUTHOR  OF  "UNCLE  ABNER,"  "THE 
SLEUTH  OF  ST.  JAMESES  SQUARE,"  "THE 
MYSTERY  AT  THE  BLUE  VILLA,"  ETC. 


D.   APPLETON   AND    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  :  :  LONDON   :  :  MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,   1921-1922,   by  The  Pictorial   Review   Co. 

PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


THE    MOUNTAIN 
SCHOOL-TEACHER 


CHAPTER  I 

HERE  had  once  been  a  path 
along  the  backbone  of  the  moun- 
tain, but  the  wilderness  had  un- 
dertaken to  remove  it,  and  had  almost 
succeeded.  The  wind  had  gathered  bits 
of  moss,  twigs  and  dead  stuff  into  the 
slight  depression.  The  great  hickories  had 
covered  it  with  leaves.  The  rain  had 
packed  it.  There  was  no  longer  a  path, 
only  an  open  way  between  the  trees  run- 
ning down  the  gentle  slope  of  the  ridge 
to  the  mountain  road.  The  ridge  was 
1 


2132463 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

heavily  wooded.  The  primeval  forest  was 
there.  Great  hickories  shot  up  sixty  feet 
without  a  limb,  and  so  close  that  a  man 
putting  out  his  hand  could  reach  from  one 
tree  to  another.  A  gigantic  poplar  now 
and  then  arose,  a  sugar  maple,  an  oak — 
huge  at  the  butt,  deep  rooted  in  the  good 
soil. 

The  afternoon  sun,  excluded  by  the  for- 
est, seemed  to  pack  itself  into  this  aban- 
doned path. 

The  leaves  fallen  from  the  hickories, 
under  the  touch  of  waning  summer,  took 
on  now,  by  the  magic  of  this  sun,  golden 
tones  of  red  and  yellow.  Woodpeckers 
hammered  on  the  great  trees  along  this 
path.  Insects  moved  between  the 
branches,  the  wild  bee,  the  hornet,  the  yel- 
low butterfly,  as  though  the  aerial  life  of 
the  woods  had  been  drawn  here  to  the 
sun. 

A  man  was  coming  through  the  forest 
2 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

along  this  abandoned  path.  He  walked 
slowly,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  head 
bare.  He  was  a  very  young  man — at  that 
period  of  life  when,  within  a  day,  as  by  the 
crossing  of  some  unmarked  line,  the  boy 
becomes  a  man.  There  was  about  him  the 
vigor,  the  freshness,  the  joy  of  youth,  un- 
der a  certain  maturity.  He  was  not  above 
middle  height,  his  face  was  oval,  his  eyes 
gray-blue,  his  hair  of  that  soft  rich  brown 
which  a  touch  of  the  sun  burnishes  into  a 
living  yellow ;  the  mouth  was  sensitive  and 
mobile. 

There  was  a  marked  contrast  between 
the  man  and  the  wild,  rugged,  primitive 
country  in  which  he  appeared.  His  hands 
were  firm  and  white,  and  his  skin  was  not 
in  the  least  discolored  by  sun  or  weather. 

Now  and  then  the  man  stopped  and 

looked  up  at  the  dappled  woodpeckers,  and 

the  swarms  of  yellow  butterflies,  gathered 

here  along  this  sunlit  path  as  though  to 

3 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

welcome  his  arrival,  and  his  mouth  relaxed 
into  an  eager,  luminous  smile,  as  though, 
despite  his  maturity,  he  retained  a  child's 
sense  of  some  universal  kinship  with  all 
living  things.  He  came  down  the  long 
ridge  toward  the  place  where  the  mountain 
road  crossed  the  low  gap. 

Half  a  mile  below  him  a  patriarchal  ox 
was  plodding  slowly  up  the  mountain  road. 
The  ox  was  old.  His  red  hair  was  worn 
away  in  a  variety  of  places,  by  long  labors 
at  the  sled  and  the  plow.  His  ancient 
horns  were  capped  with  brass  knobs. 
Astride  the  ox  sat  a  small  boy  on  a  sack 
of  corn,  perhaps  a  bushel  and  a  half 
shelled  from  the  cob.  Under  the  sack  was 
a  strip  of  homemade  carpet  dyed  yellow 
with  copperas.  The  little  boy  guided  the 
ox  with  a  piece  of  old  rope  tied  to  the  left 
horn  below  the  brass  knob,  precisely  as  the 
driver  of  a  four-horse  team  directs  it  with 
4 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

a  single  line.  When  he  wished  the  ox  to 
go  to  the  right,  he  jerked  the  rope  and 
shouted,  "Gee,  Berry,"  when  to  the  left, 
he  pulled  on  the  rope  and  shouted,  "Haw, 
Berry." 

But  the  ox  no  longer  required  these 
elaborate  directions. 

"Gee,"  "Haw,"  accompanied  by  a  kick- 
ing of  the  rider's  naked  heels,  were  enough 
for  the  patriarch,  or  the  soft  heels  alone 
on  the  broad  iron  ribs. 

The  boy  could  not  have  been  above  six 
years  old.  He  wore  two  garments,  a  little 
blue  shirt  of  the  material  called  "hickory," 
and  short  trousers,  with  tiny  hand-knitted 
woolen  "galluses." 

He  was  now  engaged  with  an  extreme 
difficulty. 

For  more  than  a  mile,  under  the  ox's 

rolling  gait,  the  corn  had  been  moving 

over  to  one  end  of  the  sack.     To  keep  the 

bag  from  falling,  the  boy  had  added  his 

5 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

weight  to  the  decreasing  end.  As  the  corn 
moved,  he  shifted  his  seat  a  little  farther 
out  on  the  sack.  He  sat  now,  well  over 
the  ox's  side  on  the  very  end  of  the  sack. 
His  little  mouth  was  contracted. 

It  had  been  a  long,  painful  struggle — 
this  fight  against  the  corn.  Every  inch, 
every  fraction  of  an  inch,  contested. 

The  grains  had  crept  slowly  over,  and 
the  child  had  considered  and  estimated  the 
change,  and  moved  with  it.  He  had  at- 
tributed to  the  corn  a  certain  malicious  in- 
tent, a  certain  insidious  hostility,  and  he 
had  resisted  with  dogged  courage.  It  was 
all  in  the  set  of  his  little  mouth,  in  the 
clutch  of  his  tiny  brown  hand. 

For  the  sack  to  fall  was  a  calamity 
which  the  child  well  understood. 

He  could  not  lift  the  sack.     He  could 

not  leave  the  ox  and  go  for  aid,  because 

Berry,  although  a  member  of  the  family, 

was  an  eyeservant  and  not  above  making 

6 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

his  dinner  on  the  corn  when  the  master's 
back  was  turned. 

Neither  could  he  leave  the  corn  lying  in 
the  road  and  return  with  the  ox.  Some 
one  might  carry  it  away  and,  besides,  it 
was  his  bale  of  stuffs,  the  cargo  with 
which  he  had  been  intrusted,  and  he  could 
not  leave  it. 

The  mountain  road  was  deserted  and 
the  evening  sun  was  beginning  to  descend. 

The  child's  whole  energies  were  cen- 
tered on  his  desperate  struggle  with  the 
corn,  and  the  ox  traveled  on  leisurely  as 
he  liked.  Presently,  as  he  neared  the  top, 
the  ox  stepped  on  the  root  of  a  tree  re- 
maining in  the  road,  and  his  shoulder  went 
down.  The  sack  slipped  forward  and  fell, 
carrying  with  it  the  boy  and  the  piece  of 
carpet. 

The  ox  instantly  stopped,  the  boy  rose 
and  sat  down  on  the  sack,  resting  his  el- 
bows on  his  knees  and  his  chin  in  the  hol- 
7 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

low  of  his  tiny  brown  hands.  His  features 
retained  their  set,  dogged  expression,  but 
presently  big  tears  began  to  trickle  slowly 
down  over  his  determined  little  face.  He 
sat  with  his  back  toward  the  mountain 
gap,  looking  out  over  the  vast  wilderness 
of  tree  tops  below  him.  The  ox  stood  be- 
fore him  in  the  road,  a  figure  of  unending 
patience. 

The  day  waned,  long  shadows  crossed 
the  road,  the  sun  withdrew  to  the  high 
places.  Far  away  through  the  deep 
wooded  gorges  night  began  to  enter  the 
mountains. 


CHAPTER   II 

HEN  the  man  came  out  into 
the  mountain  road,  he  saw  the 
little  boy  sitting  on  the  sack  of 
corn  beside  the  red  ox,  and  he  smiled  as  he 
had  smiled  at  the  hammering  birds,  at  the 
yellow  butterflies.  He  turned  down 
toward  the  tragic  picture,  lengthening  his 
steps.  The  sun,  by  some  trick  of  the  mov- 
ing world,  seemed  to  follow  him  out  of  the 
abandoned  path. 

The  little  boy  did  not  see  the  man  ap- 
proaching, but  he  observed  that  the  ox,  ap- 
parently resigned  to  passing  the  night  on 
the  mountain,  was  making  ready  to  lie 
down,  knees  first,  after  the  manner  of 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

cattle.  And  the  comfortable  assurance  of 
Berry  in  this,  the  hour  of  their  misfor- 
tune, was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He 
arose  and  began  to  beat  the  ox  with  his 
little  fists. 

"Git  up,  Berry!"  he  cried.  "You  ole 
dog!  You  ole  scalawag!  Git  up!" 

The  ox  slowly  arose,  and  the  child 
turned  to  find  the  man  beside  him. 

"Poor  Berry!"  said  the  man,  smiling. 
"Is  he  a  very  bad  ox?" 

"He's  a  lazy  ole  pup,"  replied  the  little 
boy,  his  wet  eyes  catching  and  reflecting 
the  stranger's  smile.  "He's  sp'ilt!" 

Then  he  crowded  his  little  fists  into  his 
eyes  to  remove  the  traces  of  weakness  with 
which  he  had  been  taken  unawares. 

"Do  you  reckon,"  he  said,  "that  both  of 
us  could  put  the  corn  on  him  if  we  lifted 
together?" 

"I  think  so,"  replied  the  man;  "at  least 
we  will  try." 

10 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

He  took  up  the  piece  of  yellow  carpet 
and  laid  it  over  the  ox's  back.  Then  he 
stooped  down,  put  his  arms  around  the 
sack,  linking  his  fingers  together  under  it. 
The  little  boy  took  hold  of  the  corner. 
The  man  raised  the  sack  with  scarcely  an 
effort,  the  child  contributing  his  tiny 
might.  Then,  as  though  the  child's  help 
were  essential  to  the  task,  he  nodded. 

"Now,"  he  said,  and  with  a  swing  lifted 
the  sack  onto  the  ox's  back. 

The  boy  straightened  up,  and  put  both 
little  hands  on  his  hips.  His  face  was  now 
radiant. 

"We  got  it  up  all  right,  didn't  we?"  he 
said,  "both  a-liftin';  an'  now,"  he  paused 
and  regarded  the  ox  with  some  concern, 
"I've  got  to  git  on  somehow-er-nuther." 

The   ordinary   man   would   then   have 

lifted  the  child  and  set  him  on  the  ox,  but 

this  man  did  not.    He  seemed  to  know  and 

regard  that  self-reliance  which  was  so  dear 

11 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

a  thing  to  this  child.    He  stood  back  and 
looked  over  the  patriarch. 

"Berry  is  a  big  ox,"  he  said.  "We  will 
lead  him  up  to  the  bank." 

The  little  boy  walked  across  the  road 
with  a  bit  of  a  swagger. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "Berry's  a  big  ox." 

He  liked  this  strange  man  who  under- 
stood and  considered  him. 

The  man  led  the  ox  to  the  roadside,  and 
standing  by  the  beast's  shoulder,  set  his 
knee  against  the  bank.  The  little  boy  put 
his  foot  on  the  man's  knee,  caught  hold  of 
the  ox's  shoulder,  and  climbed  up  onto  the 
sack  of  corn.  He  panted  with  the  effort. 

"Berry's  everlastin'  big,"  he  observed  in 
comment.  Then  he  set  himself  squarely 
on  the  sack. 

"We're  goin'  to  mill,"  he  said.  "Where 
are  you  goin'  ?" 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  replied  the  man, 
"I  shall  go  along  with  you  and  Berry." 
12 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  tiny  chest  expanded. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "ner  Berry 
don't  neither." 

Then,  as  a  sort  of  condescension,  as  a 
sort  of  return  for  the  man's  kindness,  he 
gravely  handed  down  the  bit  of  ancient 
rope. 

"An'  you  kin  lead  Berry  if  you  want 
to." 

They  crossed  the  low  gap  and  began  to 
descend  the  mountain  on  the  other  side. 
The  man  walked  in  front  with  the  rope  in 
his  hand,  the  ox  followed  with  a  slow,  roll- 
ing gait,  his  head  lowered,  the  child  sit- 
ting astride  the  sack  of  corn.  The  sun 
seemed  to  linger  on  the  crest  of  the  moun- 
tain as  though  loath,  now,  to  withdraw 
wholly  from  the  world,  a  vagrant  breeze 
began  to  move  idly  in  the  tree  tops,  a  faint 
haze  to  gather  over  the  forests,  below  the 
sun,  as  though  it  were  some  visible  odor 
arising  from  the  earth. 
13 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  road  was  steep  and  rough,  low 
stumps  and  the  roots  of  trees  remained  in 
it,  and  it  was  washed  out  in  great  ruts. 
The  winter  rain  had  carried  the  loose  earth 
out  of  it  and  left  the  stones  and  the  tree 
roots  uncovered.  A  modern  vehicle  could 
hardly  have  kept  together  on  such  a  road, 
although  it  bore  the  marks  of  wheels 
where  the  mountaineer  had  gone  over  with 
his  wagon. 

The  little  boy  sat  regarding  the  man 
who  walked  before  him  in  the  road.  He 
seemed  not  to  have  felt  with  this  man  that 
fear  of  the  stranger  which  is  so  strong  an 
instinct  with  a  child.  From  the  first  mo- 
ment he  had  been  wholly  at  his  ease.  He 
spoke  without  restraint. 

"Where's  your  hat?"  he  said. 

The  man  paused,  and  put  up  his  hand 
as  though  he  had  not  until  this  moment 
realized  that  he  was  bareheaded. 
14 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

A  note  of  distress  came  into  the  child's 
voice. 

"You've  lost  your  hat.  Are  you  goin' 
back  to  look  for  it?  'Cause  me  an'  Berry 
can  go  on  to  the  mill  by  ourselves." 

"No,"  said  the  man,  "I  shall  go  on  with 
you  and  Berry." 

"But  you  ain't  got  no  hat,"  the  child 
continued. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  find  one  somewhere," 
replied  the  man. 

"No,"  said  the  child,  "you  won't  never 
find  one,  'cause  nobody  don't  lose  their  hats 
up  here.  You'll  have  to  buy  one  at  the 
store." 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  of  all  the  won- 
derful things  that  the  store  contained: 
Striped  candy  in  sticks  in  a  big  glass  jar, 
and  fishhooks,  and  sea  grass  fishin'  lines, 
and  guns,  and  pistols,  and  knives.  But 
principally  knives.  Upon  this  particular 
topic  he  spoke  with  deep  personal  inter- 
15 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

est.  In  that  place  of  wonders  were  knives 
with  six  blades,  with  "peraly"  handles, 
with  gimlets  and  tweezers  in  them, 
little  knives  that  one  could  hide  between 
one's  fingers  and  big  ones  with  a  ring  in 
the  handle  so  one  could  tie  them  to  his 
"galluses."  And  Barlows  with  IXL  on 
the  blade. 

He  paused  and  thrust  his  hand  into  his 
pocket.  He  had  one  that  his  grandfather 
had  given  him  at  Christmas,  and  he  held  it 
up — a  Barlow  with  a  bone  handle  and  a 
single  blade. 

The  man  stopped  and  came  back  to  the 
ox's  shoulder.  He  took  the  knife  and  ex- 
amined it  carefully,  opened  it  and  tried 
the  edge  on  his  thumb.  The  blade  was 
round  and  blunt  at  the  end.  The  child 
explained  this  with  an  air  of  apology. 

"Gran'-pap  was  afraid  I'd  run  it  in  my 
eye,  so  he  grinded  it  off.  Have  you  got  a 
knife?" 

16 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  man  felt  in  his  pockets. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  seem  to  have 
a  knife." 

"Well,"  said  the  little  boy,  "you  can  git 
one  when  you  go  to  git  your  hat." 

The  man  walked  on  by  the  ox's  shoul- 
der, and  the  child  continued  to  talk.  There 
were  difficulties  to  be  met.  The  store  was 
very  far  away,  and  one  required  money  to 
obtain  its  treasures.  The  getting  of  money 
was  a  very  troublesome  affair.  But  he 
knew  a  way  or  two  by  which  the  thing 
could  be  accomplished.  One  could  gather 
hickory  nuts  or  one  could  dig  ginseng. 
The  latter  method  was  to  be  advised — a 
pound  brought  a  dollar  and  seventeen 
cents.  But  it  must  be  dried.  One  strung 
it  on  a  string  and  hung  it  over  the  fire- 
place. The  storekeeper  would  not  take  it 
green. 

He  spoke  a  word  of  comment  concern- 
ing the  storekeeper. 

17 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

He  was  hard  to  fool.  He  always  broke 
the  ginseng  roots  to  see  if  there  was  a  nail 
concealed  inside.  The  child  knew  a  man 
who  had  outwitted  the  storekeeper  once  by 
putting  shot  in  the  ends  of  the  root,  leav- 
ing the  middle  unmolested ;  but,  he  added, 
that  was  "no  way  to  do." 

The  road  on  this  side  of  the  mountain 
was  steep.  The  turns  short.  The  little 
party  soon  reached  the  foot,  and  came  out 
into  a  valley,  cleared  and  sowed  in  timothy 
grass.  Through  this  valley,  between 
sodded  banks,  ran  a  dark-colored,  swiftly 
flowing  stream. 

The  road  followed  the  stream  through 
the  meadow  until  it  approached  the  mill. 
There  the  stream  descended  swiftly  over 
ridges  of  sandstone  into  a  dam  of  ancient 
logs.  The  mill  sat  beside  the  road,  its  roof 
projecting,  its  porch  raised  above  the 
ground,  its  door  and  its  gable  open,  its  en- 
trance coated  with  white  dust. 
18 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  machinery  was  of  the  simplest,  two 
stone  burrs  turned  by  a  paddle  wheel ;  the 
water  carried  down  from  the  dam  in  a 
boxed  sluice,  covered  with  green  moss. 

The  mill  evidently  served  two  uses. 

There  was  a  second  door  to  one-half  of 
it,  also  opening  on  the  porch,  and  through 
the  open  door  one  could  see  a  stove,  a  bed, 
a  well-scrubbed  table. 

As  the  man  leading  the  red  ox  ap- 
proached, a  woman  appeared  in  the  mill 
door.  She  was  a  sturdy  woman  of  middle 
life,  her  calico  dress  pulled  up  in  front  and 
girded  around  her  ample  waist  with  an 
apron  string.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  to 
the  elbows,  and  her  fat,  powerful  hands 
rested  on  her  hips.  Her  mouth  was  com- 
pressed, the  muscles  of  her  jaws  pro- 
truded, her  bright  gray  eyes  rested  on  the 
strange  man  with  a  profound,  unmoved 
scrutiny.  When  the  ox  stood  beside  the 
porch,  the  man  spoke. 
19 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Good  evening,"  he  said. 

The  woman  did  not  reply,  she  jerked  her 
head ;  then  she  came  slowly  out,  still  look- 
ing at  the  man. 

"Jump  off,  David,"  she  said  to  the  boy; 
then  she  took  up  the  sack  with  ease,  swung 
it  into  the  hollow  of  her  arm,  and  went 
with  it  into  the  mill.  But  over  her  shoul- 
der she  continued  to  regard  the  man 
standing  in  the  road. 

She  threw  the  sack  down  by  the  hopper, 
and  came  again  into  the  mill  door.  Her 
fat  hands  returned  to  her  hips  and  her 
eyes  went  again  to  the  man.  But  she  spoke 
to  the  boy. 

"You'll  be  late  gittin'  home." 

"I  ain't  goin'  home,"  replied  the  child. 
"I'm  goin'  to  Uncle  Jimmie's,"  and  he 
pointed  his  finger  up  the  valley. 

"You  can  make  that  by  dark,"  said  the 
woman,  "but  you  better  be  movin'  along." 

She  came  out  and  spread  the  piece  of 
20 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

carpet  on  the  ox.  The  small  boy  stepped 
off  the  mill  porch  and  went  out  into  the 
road  behind  the  man,  where  a  flat  rock  lay 
in  the  dust. 

He  remained  a  moment  squatted  down 
on  his  bare  legs.  Then  he  returned, 
climbed  onto  the  ox,  and  set  out  up  the 
valley,  kicking  his  heels  against  the  patri- 
arch's ancient  ribs. 

At  the  bend  of  the  road,  the  boy  stopped 
and  shouted.  The  man  turned  about 
where  he  was  standing.  The  boy  pointed 
his  finger. 

"There's  somethin'  under  that  rock,"  he 
called. 

Then  he  swung  around  on  his  piece  of 
carpet,  spoke  to  the  ox,  and  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  shadows  of  the  valley. 

The  man  stooped  down  and  turned  the 
flat  stone  over.  There  lay  the  Barlow 
knife. 

The  woman,  watching  the  man,  sud- 
21 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

denly  brought  her  bent  palm  to  her  fore- 
head and  looked  up  at  the  mountain,  to 
see  if  some  stray  bit  of  the  setting  sun  had 
entered  the  valley.  But  there  was  noth- 
ing. 

Night  had  descended. 


CHAPTER   III 

HE  man  stood  out  in  the  road 
looking  toward  the  south.  The 
country  under  his  eye  was  primi- 
tive. The  mountains  rose  in  benches, 
heavily  wooded.  On  one  of  these  benches 
stood  a  log  house  to  be  seen  among  the 
trees,  faintly,  where  the  mountain  road 
passed.  Behind  it,  far  away,  a  strip  of 
green  lay  like  a  cloth  across  the  very  top 
of  the  mountain — a  bit  of  farm  in  which 
two  immense  hickory  trees  stood  like  pil- 
lars. These  trees  must  have  been  gigan- 
tic, since  at  the  great  distance  they  were 
to  the  eye  huge.  The  man  standing  in  the 
road  seemed  to  be  considering  this  coun- 
23 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

try.  His  face  was  lifted  and,  in  repose, 
melancholy. 

The  woman  continued  to  regard  the  man 
standing  in  the  road.  Finally  she  spoke, 
swinging  her  body  a  moment  on  her  sturdy 
legs. 

"You're  the  new  School-teacher,  I  reck- 
on." 

The  man  replied,  without  moving. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"You're  a  little  behindhand." 

"Yes." 

"You've  come  a  good  piece  to-day,  I 
reckon." 

"A  long  way." 

The  woman  took  her  fat  right  hand  from 
her  hips,  and  began  to  brush  the  skirt  of 
her  calico  dress,  although  there  was  noth- 
ing on  it  to  remove. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  better  come  in 
and  git  your  supper." 

The  man  turned  and  faced  the  woman. 
24 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

His  features  appeared  by  a  powerful  ef- 
fort to  exclude  something  which  he  wished 
not  to  show  and  had  been  until  this  mo- 
ment not  wholly  able  to  conceal. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  said.  "I  am 
hungry." 

"Just  set  down  on  the  porch,"  said  the 
woman.  "We've  had  our  supper,  but  I'll 
git  you  a  bite." 

The  man  came  over  and  sat  down,  his 
hands  idly  on  his  knees,  his  face  looking 
out  toward  the  mountains.  The  woman 
began  her  preparations  for  the  stranger's 
meal.  She  entered  the  room  where  the 
wooden  table  stood,  crossed  to  a  cupboard, 
opened  it  and  took  out  some  dishes.  These 
she  began  to  put  on  the  table.  Then  she 
stopped  and  stood  with  her  hands  resting 
on  her  hips.  A  moment  later  she  removed 
the  dishes,  went  over  to  a  chest,  standing 
in  the  corner,  lifted  the  lid,  took  out  a 
25 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

clean  homespun  linen  cloth,  and  spread  it 
over  the  table. 

As  she  moved  about  she  talked. 

"When  are  you  goin'  to  begin  school?" 

"Monday  morning,"  replied  the  man. 

"Word  ought  to  be  sent  'round." 

"I  think  the  children  will  come." 

"They'll  come  when  they  know  it,  an' 
they'll  know  it  purty  soon;  news  travels 
powerful  fast.  We  looked  for  you  yester- 
day." 

"Yes." 

"Somethin'  kept  you  back,  I  s'pose." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  there's  allers  somethin'  to  hap- 
pen. You  won't  have  much  of  a  school,  I 
expect.  The  big  boys  have  all  gone  off  to 
the  sawmills,  an'  the  big  girls  are  helpin' 
with  the  work.  It's  a  mighty  busy  time." 

"I  would  rather  have  the  little  children." 

"They're  a  heap  of  bother." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  mind  the  bother." 
26 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Don't  you?  Most  people  do.  They're 
harder  to  teach  than  the  big  ones,  ain't 
they?" 

"I  think  they  are  easier  to  teach." 

"Do  you?  What  makes  you  think 
they're  easier  to  teach?" 

"They  understand  me  better,"  replied 
the  man. 

The  woman  had  taken  down  an  old 
glass  bowl  with  a  notched  glass  cover  from 
the  top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  rinsed  it 
with  water,  wiped  it  carefully  and  set  it  on 
the  table.  In  this  she  had  placed  a  comb 
of  red,  mountain  honey.  She  continued 
to  talk. 

"I  want  Martha  to  go  to  school.  She's 
a-goin'  on  nine.  I  can't  spare  her  very 
well,  but  I  don't  want  to  keep  her  back. 
She  saves  me  a  good  many  steps.  She's 
gone  after  the  cow.  She  ought  to  be 


cominV 


The  woman  was  busy  at  the  stove. 

27 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  don't  see  why  a  cow  can't  learn  some- 
thin',  can't  learn  to  come  home  at  night, 
anyway.  Everything  else  learns  to  come 
home  at  night.  Ketch  a  dog  forgittin'  it. 
I  'spose  old  Bloss  has  gone  as  fur  as  she 
could  git,  an'  you  can't  allears  hear  the 
bell.  But  Martha'll  find  her." 

The  woman  came  from  the  stove  to  the 
table. 

"Martha  can  read,  an*  she  can  spell  out 
of  the  spellin'  book.  She's  real  smart." 

A  stone  jar  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  corner 
of  the  room,  beside  it  was  a  yellow  gourd 
with  a  long  handle,  the  bowl  of  the  gourd 
cut  out  to  form  a  dipper.  The  woman 
got  a  plate  out  of  the  cupboard.  A  very 
old  plate,  somewhat  chipped,  with  quaint 
little  flowers  painted  on  it  in  bright  col- 
ors. The  plate  had  not  been  used  for  a 
long  time.  It  was  covered  with  white 
dust.  She  carried  the  plate  over  to  the 
jar,  dipped  up  some  water  with  the  gourd, 
28 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

and  holding  the  plate  over  a  bucket, 
poured  on  the  water,  then  she  polished  the 
plate  carefully  with  a  cloth  and  set  it  on 
the  table.  Her  conversation  continued. 

"The  schoolhouse  is  old,  but  it's  got  a 
good  roof  on  it.  It'll  turn  the  weather. 
Ole  man  Dix  put  that  roof  on  three  years 
ago.  The  clapboards  are  all  smoothed 
with  a  drawin'  knife.  He  was  so  slow  that 
it  made  you  tired  jest  to  see  him  workin', 
but  he  done  a  good  job.  He  used  to  have 
a  sayin'  that  he  got  out  of  the  Bible — 
when  you  made  fun  of  him  for  bein'  so 
slow.  He  must  have  heard  it  in  meetin'. 
He  couldn't  read.  But  I've  heard  him 
say  it  over  an'  over  a  thousand  times,  I 
reckon — 'He  that  believeth  shall  not  make 
haste.'  I  don't  know  what  he  believed.  I 
know  he  was  never  paid  nothin'  for  put- 
tin'  on  the  roof." 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  was  not 
paid?"  said  the  man. 
29 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  know  it  very  well,"  said  the  woman. 
"He  was  dyin'  of  the  janders  all  the  time. 
He  sawed  the  comb  of  the  roof  the  very 
day  before  he  went." 

The  iron  skillet  on  which  the  woman 
was  baking  cakes,  overheated,  at  this  mo- 
ment caught  fire.  She  lifted  it  from  the 
stove,  blew  out  the  flame,  and  turned  the 
cake  with  a  deft  twist  of  her  hand. 

Engaged  with  the  pancakes  for  the 
man's  supper,  her  conversation  became  a 
monologue. 

She  reviewed  the  families  living  in  the 
mountains,  enumerated  the  children, 
named  them,  classed  them  as  good  or  bad 
with  a  few  clear  strokes  and  attached  the 
history  of  their  ancestors,  running  on,  as 
she  moved  about.  Then,  when  she  had 
finished,  she  got  a  little  yellow  bowl  from 
the  cupboard  and  came  with  it  in  her  hand 
to  the  door. 

30 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  wonder  what's  keepin'  Martha,"  she 
murmured. 

At  the  door  she  came  near  to  dropping 
the  bowl  out  of  her  hand  in  her  astonish- 
ment. A  little  figure  in  a  red  calico  sun- 
bonnet  sat  beside  the  man  on  the  mill 
porch;  close  beside  him  in  the  gloom  of 
the  descending  night. 

"Goodness!"  said  the  woman.  "How 
you  skeered  me.  When  did  you  git  back?" 

The  child  arose,  laughing.  In  the  dark- 
ness only  the  bonnet,  the  short  dress,  the 
little  white  legs  were  visible. 

"While  you  were  talkin',  Mother,"  she 
replied. 

"Bless  my  life!"  said  the  woman.  "I 
didn't  hear  you."  She  handed  the  child 
the  bowl.  "Run  along  to  the  spring 
house  and  git  some  butter." 

The  woman  went  back  into  the  room, 
got  a  tallow  candle,  squeezed  it  into  an  old 
31 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

brass  candlestick,  and  set  it  on  the  table. 
In  a  moment  the  little  girl  returned  with 
the  butter.  She  regarded  the  table  for  a 
moment,  then  she  removed  the  old  blue 
plate,  drew  out  from  under  the  bed  a  store 
box  with  a  lid  fastened  with  leather 
hinges — evidently  her  private  chest — took 
out  a  plate,  washed  it  with  boiling  water 
from  the  teakettle,  and  set  it  on  the  table. 
It  was  a  little,  cheap,  porcelain  plate  with 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet  raised  around 
the  rim.  The  woman  watched  the  child 
with  a  certain  smiling  condescension. 
Then  she  went  to  the  door,  wiped  her 
hands  on  her  apron,  stood  back  by  the 
doorpost,  and  spoke  to  the  man. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "if  you'll  come  in  to 
supper." 

The  man  got  up,  came  into  the  room, 
and  sat  down  at  the  table.    Before  him  on 
the  clean  linen  cloth  were  honey,  brown 
32 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

corncakes,  and  a  goblet  of  milk.  The  light 
of  the  candle  seemed  to  gather  and  illu- 
mine his  face;  and  curiously  to  bring  out 
in  his  brown  hair  those  touches  of  living 
yellow  which  the  sun  had  so  strikingly  in- 
dicated on  this  afternoon.  And  more  curi- 
ously, too,  there  was  no  stain  of  travel,  no 
evidence  of  fatigue  on  the  man.  Instead 
of  it,  there  was  an  abiding  glow  of  fresh, 
vital,  alluring  youth. 

The  woman  moved  about,  setting  the 
room  in  order,  the  little  girl  stood  by  the 
man's  chair. 

Presently  the  woman  finished  and  came 
over  to  the  table,  bringing  with  her  a 
heavy,  hickory,  split-bottom  chair.  She 
stopped,  snuffed  the  candle,  and  then  sat 
down  opposite  the  man.  Her  hands,  as 
though  accustomed  to  constant  occupation, 
wandered  to  the  table,  smoothed  the  cloth 
by  stretching  the  two  corners,  flicked  away 
invisible  dust.  Finally  she  spoke. 
33 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"You're  goin'  to  board  around,  I 
'spose." 

"No,"  replied  the  man,  "I'm  going  to 
stay  at  Nicholas  Parks'  house." 

The  woman  dropped  her  hands  into  her 
lap.  Her  mouth  opened  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"Not  with  ole  Nicholas!"  she  said. 
"Why,  the  devil  couldn't  live  with  ole 
Nicholas!  He's  the  meanest  man  that 
ever  drawed  the  breath  of  life!  He 
wouldn't  give  you  a  meal's  vittels  if  it  was 
to  save  you  from  dying!" 

She  arose  to  her  feet. 

"Dear  me!"  she  said,  "that  won't  do  at 
all."  She  walked  about  the  room  moving 
articles  of  furniture,  and  crumpling  her 
apron  in  her  fat  hands.  Finally  she  came 
back  to  the  table. 

"It  ain't  cold,"  she  said,  "an'  if  you 
could  sleep  in  the  mill  loft,  you  could 
stay  right  here  with  us." 
34 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

She  hastened  to  explain. 

"You  could  help  me  grind  on  Satur- 
days— that's  the  busiest  day,  an'  maybe, 
if  you're  handy  with  tools,  you  could 
patch  up  the  mill  some.  The  wheel  needs 
a  new  paddle,  an'  you  could  board  up 
the  loft,  an'  you  could  put  in  some  steps." 

The  man  listened. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  can  work  with  tools; 
I  will  do  these  things  for  you." 

"Then  you'll  stay,"  said  the  woman. 

"I  am  sorry,"  repleid  the  man,  "but  I 
cannot  stay." 

The  woman  sat  down  in  her  chair. 

"How  you'll  git  on  with  ole  Nicholas, 
I  don't  see,"  she  said. 

"He  will  not  be  there,"  sraid  the  man. 

"Not  be  there!"  the  woman  repeated. 

"No,"  replied  the  man,  "he  is  going 
away." 

The  woman's  face  became,  on  the  in- 
stant, incredulous. 

35 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  little  girl,  standing  beside  the  man, 
saw  it  and  shook  her  head.  The  woman, 
her  mouth  open,  her  chin  lifted,  marked 
the  signal  and  respected  it.  She  dropped 
her  hands  into  her  lap. 

"Well!"  she  said,  and  after  a  moment, 
to  establish  her  composure,  "you  can't  go 
on  to  ole  Nicholas'  to-night, — it's  dark 
now." 

"I  am  going  to  the  schoolhouse  to- 
night," replied  the  man. 

"You're  more'n  welcome  to  stay  with 
us,"  said  the  woman,  "if  you'll  stay." 

The  man  had  now  finished  his  supper, 
and  he  rose. 

"I  know  that,"  he  said,  "you  are  very 
kind  to  me." 

The  woman  got  up  and  went  to  the 
door. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  "I  hate  to  see  you 
go  in'  out  in  the  night." 

The  man  stopped  to  kiss  the  little  girl. 
36 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  don't  mind  the  night,"  he  said.  "I 
have  some  things  to  do." 

"The  schoolhouse  will  need  cleanin' 
up,"  said  the  woman,  "an'  to-morrow's 
Sunday.  I  ought  to  a-helped  you  clean 
it." 

"You  have  already  helped  me  more 
than  you  realize,"  replied  the  man.  "If 
I  need  further  help,  another  will  help 
me." 

Then  he  went  down  into  the  road. 
There  was  no  moon,  but  under  the  bril- 
liant stars,  the  road  became  a  vague  white 
way,  leading  the  stranger  up  into  the 
deeps  of  the  forest. 

The  woman  remained  standing  in  the 
door.  Presently  the  little  girl  spoke. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "the  Teacher  has 
no  clothes,  he  didn't  even  have  a  little 
bundle." 

The  woman  came  back  to  the  table.  She 
37 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

stood  a  moment  with  her  hand  resting 
on  her  hip. 

"That's  so,"  she  said.  "I  reckon  he 
didn't  bring  any.  Carryin'  things  gits 
powerful  tiresome,  when  you  come  a  long 
ways." 

Then  the  dominant  quality  in  the 
woman — the  instinct  to  find  a  resource  for 
every  condition  that  arose,  moved  her. 
She  went  over  to  the  fireplace,  above 
which,  on  the  high  mantel  shelf  sat  an  an- 
cient clock.  She  stood  on  her  tiptoes, 
opened  the  clock  door,  and  took  out  a  lit- 
tle brass  key,  then  she  crossed  to  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  stooped  and  dragged  a  little 
old  horsehide  trunk  out  into  the  floor.  She 
fitted  the  key  into  the  lock,  but  it  was 
rusted  and  would  not  turn.  The  trunk 
had  not  been  opened  for  many  years.  She 
came  back  to  the  table  and  rubbed  the 
key  with  melted  tallow  from  the  candle. 

"There  are  some  fine  shirts  in  that 
38 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

trunk  that  we  could  give  him,"  she  said. 
"Your  grandma  give  them  to  your  pap 
at  our  infair.  She  made  them  herself. 
But  he  never  wore  them.  He  said,  they 
was  too  fine  to  skuff  out.  An'  they've 
laid  there  for  ten  years.  They're  a  heap 
too  big  for  the  Teacher.  Your  pap  was 
twice  as  big  as  he  is.  But  I  can  cut  off 
the  sleeves  and  take  up  the  neckband,  so 
he  can  wear  them.  They're  good  linen. 
Your  grandma  was  mighty  handy." 

The  little  girl  had  removed  the  dishes 
from  the  table,  while  the  woman  was 
opening  the  trunk.  She  now  came  and 
held  the  horsehide  lid,  while  her  mother 
searched  for  the  articles.  Finally  the 
woman  found  the  shirts.  She  found  also, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk,  a  folded  piece 
of  linen,  as  though  that  one  making  the 
shirts  had  used  only  a  portion  of  her  ma- 
terial. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,"  she  said,  "if 
39 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

here  ain't  a  big  piece  that  your  grand- 
ma didn't  make  up." 

She  brought  the  shirts  over  to  the  table 
where  the  candle  stood.  She  regarded 
them  with  surprise  and  admiration. 

"Bless  my  life,  they're  nice,"  she  said, 
"not  a  yaller  spot  on  them." 

A  moment  she  stood  in  rapt  apprecia- 
tion of  the  beautiful,  snowy  linen.  Then 
she  caught  up  one  of  the  shirts  and  spread 
the  neckband  with  her  fingers. 

"Well!  Upon  my  soul!"  she  said. 
"Upon  my  soul!" 

She  held  the  shirt  up  and  measured  it 
from  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  from  the 
neckband  to  the  wrist. 

"Why,  they'll  fit  him!  They'll  fit  him 
just  as  good  as  if  they'd  been  made  for 
him.  If  that  don't  beat  all!  Your  pap 
was  over  six  feet,  and  long  armed.  Now, 
how  in  the  name  of  common  sense  did 
your  grandma  ever  make  such  a  mistake? 
40 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

It  ain't  like  your  grandma — she  always 
sewed  by  pinnin'  and  measurin'." 

The  little  girl  was  not  listening.  She 
had  gone  out  onto  the  mill  porch.  She 
now  spoke,  but  not  in  reply  to  these  ex- 
clamations. 

"There  are  lights  up  at  the  schoolhouse, 
Mother." 

The  woman,  still  under  her  surprise, 
replied  without  looking  up. 

"I  reckon  the  Teacher's  cleanin'  the 
schoolhouse." 

"But  the  lights  look  like  they  went  up 
an'  down  through  the  tree  tops." 

"I  suppose  he's  carryin'  water  down 
from  the  spring  on  the  mountain,"  replied 
the  woman,  still  bending  over  the  shirts 
that  lay  spread  out  on  the  table. 


CHAPTER  IV 

T  SUNRISE  the  following 
morning,  a  man  riding  a  lean  bay 
horse  came  down  the  mountain 
road  toward  the  mill.  His  left  hand  was 
deformed,  as  though  from  infancy.  The 
fingers  doubled  in  against  the  wrist.  He 
held  the  bridle  rein,  tied  in  a  knot,  over 
the  crook  of  his  arm.  He  was  a  big  man 
and  he  sat  in  the  saddle  as  though  more 
accustomed  to  that  seat  than  to  any  other. 
The  horse  traveled  in  a  running  walk. 
He  turned  into  the  little  valley  and  ap- 
proached the  mill.  The  miller  was  feed- 
ing her  chickens  in  the  road  before  the 
door,  throwing  out  handfuls  of  yellow 
42 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

corn.  The  man  called  to  her  before  the 
horse  stopped. 

"Have  you  got  enough  of  that  corn  for 
a  horse-feed,  Sally?" 

The  woman  turned,  scattering  the 
chickens. 

"Bless  my  life,"  she  said,  "it's  the  doc- 
tor. Where  you  been?" 

"Up  there,"  he  replied,  jerking  his  de- 
formed arm  toward  the  summit  of  the 
mountain  where  lay  the  bit  of  farm, 
marked  by  the  gigantic  trees. 

"Is  ole  Nicholas  sick?"  said  the  woman. 

"He  ain't  sick  now,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"You  cured  him,  did  you?" 

"No,  I  didn't  cure  him,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, getting  down  from  his  horse;  "they 
were  dyin'  in  Hickory  Mountain  before  I 
come  into  it,  an'  they'll  keep  on  a-dyin' 
after  I've  gone  out." 

He  lifted  his  leather  saddlebags  down 
43 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

from  the  horse  and  carried  it  across  to  the 
mill  porch. 

The  woman  remained  standing  in  the 
road,  her  closed  hand  full  of  corn,  the  yel- 
low grains  showing  between  her  fingers. 

"You  ain't  tellin'  me  ole  Nicholas  is 
dead  I" 

"Yes,  he's  dead,"  said  the  doctor.  "Now 
get  me  a  gallon  of  corn;  that  horse  ain't 
had  a  bite  to  eat  since  yesterday  eve- 
ning." 

He  went  across  the  road,  picked  up  a 
box,  knocked  the  dust  out  of  it  and 
brought  it  over  by  the  mill  porch.  Then 
he  took  the  bit  out  of  the  horse's  mouth, 
and  put  the  bridle  rein  over  the  saddle, 
under  the  stirrup  leather. 

"Ole  Nicholas  dead!"  the  woman  re- 
peated. "Well !  Upon  my  word !" 

"Why  shouldn't  he  be  dead?"  said  the 
doctor.  "Every  damn  thing's  got  to  die." 
44 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"What  killed  him?"  inquired  the 
woman. 

"I  don't  know  what  killed  him,"  replied 
the  doctor.  "He  was  stretched  out  on  the 
floor  when  I  got  there." 

"Did  he  die  just  like  anybody  else?" 
said  the  woman. 

"No,"  answered  the  doctor,  "he  didn't 
die  like  anybody  that  I  ever  saw.  Will 
you  get  me  that  corn?" 

The  woman  went  into  the  mill  and  pres- 
ently came  out  with  the  toll  measure  full 
of  corn.  She  poured  it  into  the  box.  Then 
she  sat  down  on  the  porch  beside  the  doc- 
tor, and  began  to  roll  the  end  of  her  apron 
between  her  fat  fingers. 

"When  did  ole  Nicholas  take  down?" 
she  began. 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  the  doctor. 
"Jonas  Black  was  crossing  the  mountain 
about  noon,  an'  old  Nicholas  called  to  him 
45 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

and  told  him  to  tell  me  to  come  and  see 
him.     I  went  up  last  night." 

"It's  a  wonder  you  went,"  said  the  mil- 
ler. "Ole  Nicholas  wouldn't  pay  you, 
would  he?" 

"If  he  didn't  pay  me,  I  wouldn't  go," 
replied  the  doctor,  "you  can  depend  on 
that.  I've  quit  bringin'  'em  in  or  seein' 
'em  out  unless  I  get  the  cash  in  my  hand." 

"I  didn't  think  he  had  any  money.  He 
was  always  buyin'  wild  lands  of  the 
State." 

"I  don't  know  how  much  money  he 
had,"  replied  the  doctor,  "but  I  do  know 
that  it  was  always  there  on  the  table  for 
me  when  I  went.  If  it  hadn't  a-been,  I 
wouldn't  have  darkened  his  door." 

"Did  he  die  hard?"  said  the  woman. 

"Everybody  dies  hard,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor. 

"Did  he  want  to  go?" 

"None  of  us  want  to  go." 
46 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"How  long  did  he  live  after  you  got 
there?" 

"He  lived  until  daylight." 

"You  must  have  had  a  bad  night  of  it." 

"It  was  awful!" 

"It  must  a-been  terrible  if  you  thought 
so.    You  are  used  to  seem'  people  die." 

"I'm  not  used  to  seein'  them  die  like 
old  Nicholas  died,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"He  must  a-been  in  powerful  pain." 

"It  wasn't  so  much  pain.    I  could  stop 
the  pain." 

"Was  he  out  of  his  head  then?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Couldn't   you   tell    by    the    way    he 
talked?" 

"He  didn't  talk." 

"Did  he  see  things?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  saw." 

"What  was  it  that  made  his  dyin'  so 
awful?" 

"It  was  fear"  replied  the  doctor. 
47 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"That  he'd  be  lost?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  he'd  die 
before  he  could  tell  me  something  that 
he  was  tryin'  to  tell  me." 

"Goodness!  Was  he  tryin'  to  tell  you 
somethin'  all  night?" 

"All  night,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  woman  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
her  fat  hands  clasped  together  in  her  lap, 
the  muscles  of  her  face  tense,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  mountain,  then  she  spoke. 

"Did  he  ever  tell  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  it  somethin'  he'd  done?" 

"No,"  replied  the  doctor,  "it  was  not 
anything  he'd  done." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  did  not  understand  it,"  replied  the 
doctor. 

The  woman  rose. 

"Good  Lord!"  she  said,  "a  man  on  his 
deathbed  a-trying  all  night  to  tell  you 
48 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

somethin'  an'  then  you  didn't  understand 
it!" 

"No,  I  didn't  understand  it,"  said  the 
doctor.  "He  kept  whisperin' — 'He's 
comin,'  he's  comin'.  He's  to  have  my 
things,'  an'  I  kept  askin'  him  if  he  meant 
some  of  his  kin  folks,  but  he  always  shook 
his  head.  I  never  saw  a  man  in  such  mor- 
tal agony  to  speak.  Finally  just  before 
he  died,  he  got  it  out.  He  said,  'The 
Teacher.'  Now,  what  did  he  mean?" 

"I  know  who  he  meant,"  replied  the 
woman,  "he  meant  the  School-teacher." 

"What  School-teacher?" 

"Why,  the  new  School-teacher,  the  one 
that  come  last  night.  He  was  goin'  to 
stay  with  Nicholas." 

The  horse  had  now  finished  with  his 
breakfast,  the  doctor  got  up. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  School- 
teacher," he  said. 

He  went  over  to  the  horse,  put  the  bit 
49 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

into  its  mouth,  took  up  his  leather  saddle- 
bags and  thrust  his  foot  into  the  stirrup. 

"See  here,  Sally,"  he  said,  "old  Nicholas 
wanted  me  to  get  up  at  his  funeral  and 
say  that  he  had  left  everything  to  the 
'Teacher.'  I  suppose  he  meant  this  new 
School-teacher.  I  told  him  I'd  see  to  it. 
Now,  I  don't  want  to  come  hack  here; 
couldn't  you  do  it?  The  country  will 
likely  gather  up  and  bury  him  this  after- 
noon." 

He  swung  up  into  the  saddle  and 
hooked  the  bridle  rein  over  his  crooked 
arm. 

"Yes,  I'll  do  that,"  said  the  woman. 
The  doctor  clucked  to  his  horse,  and  dis- 
appeared down  the  little  valley;  his  arm 
rising  and  falling  with  the  regular  motion 
of  the  swinging  walk. 

The  woman  remained  standing  in  the 
road,  her  hands  spread  out  on  her  hips. 
She  had  suddenly  remembered  that  the 
50 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

guest  of  last  night  had  said  that  Nicholas 
Parks  was  going  away! 

At  noon  the  miller  and  her  little  girl 
set  out  up  the  mountain. 

They  did  not  go  by  the  road  that  wound 
tortuously  through  the  forest  to  the  sum- 
mit. They  followed  a  path  that  ascended 
more  directly,  crossing  the  road  now  and 
then,  and  climbing  up  steep  ascents  to 
the  top,  where  it  ended  in  the  road  run- 
ning along  the  high  ridge,  through  the 
little  mountain  farm. 

The  farm  was  inclosed  on  either  side  by 
a  rail  fence.  Below  it  was  a  cornfield  of 
several  acres,  above  a  bit  of  fertile 
meadow,  in  which,  on  the  very  ridge,  stood 
two  gigantic  trees  lifting  their  branches 
eighty  feet  into  the  sky. 

A  dozen  paces  of  beautiful  green  turf 
lying  between  the  great  shellbarks. 

Farther  out  stood  a  log  house  with  a 
51 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

clapboard  roof  and  a  chimney  built  half- 
way up  with  stone  and  finished  with 
crossed  sticks,  daubed  with  yellow  clay. 
Behind  it  was  a  garden  inclosed  with  pal- 
ings split  out  of  long  cuts  of  hickory  tim- 
ber. Midway  between  the  garden  and 
the  house,  opposite  the  door,  was  a 
whitewashed  well  curb.  From  a  long 
pole,  suspended  in  a  forked  tree  on  a 
round  locust  pin,  hung  a  sapling  fastened 
to  a  bucket.  Everything  about  the  little 
farm  was  well  kept.  The  chimney  and 
the  palings  were  whitewashed,  the  fence 
was  well  laid  up,  the  bit  of  land  was  clean. 
Midway  in  the  meadow,  a  path  entered 
through  wooden  bars  and  ran  along  in- 
side the  rail  fence  to  the  house. 

There  was  a  little  crowd  of  some  half 
dozen  men  standing  about  these  bars, 
when  the  woman  and  child  came  up. 

The  woman  stopped  in  the  road. 
52 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"What  are  you  all  standin'  around 
for?"  she  said. 

The  men  did  not  immediately  reply. 
Finally  one  of  them  answered. 

"We're  waitin'  for  the  preacher  to 
come." 

The  woman  looked  at  the  apparently 
vacant  house.  The  door  open.  The  sun 
lying  on  the  threshold. 

"There's  a-plenty  to  do,  till  he  gits 
here,"  she  said.  "Somebody's  got  to  dig 
a  grave,  an'  somebody's  got  to  make  a 
coffin." 

The  man  leaning  against  the  bar  post, 
who  had  spoken  for  the  others,  now 
jerked  his  head  toward  the  meadow. 

"It's  dug,"  he  said. 

The  woman  looked  in  the  direction  he 
indicated ;  a  pile  of  fresh  earth  lay  heaped 
up  in  the  meadow,  not  between  the  two 
trees,  but  below  them,  some  paces  from 
the  summit. 

53 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Well,"  said  the  woman,  "you  didn't 
pick  out  the  place  I'd  a  picked;  I'd  a 
put  it  on  the  ridge  between  them  two 
trees,  that's  the  natural  place  for  it,  there 
couldn't  be  no  grander  place.  Who  did 
you  think  you  was  savin'  that  place  for? 
It  looks  like  you  was  puttin'  ole  Nicholas 
so  he'd  be  at  the  foot  of  somebody  else 
that  you  was  a-goin'  to  bury." 

"We  didn't  pick  the  place,"  said  the 
man. 

"Who  done  it?" 

"We  don't  know  who  done  it,  the  grave 
was  dug  when  we  got  here." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
the  little  girl. 

"There  comes  the  preacher,"  she  said. 

The  woman  turned  and  looked  down 
the  road  in  the  direction  from  which  she 
had  just  come. 


CHAPTER  V 

MAN  driving  a  country  buggy 
was  approaching.  He  was  a  tall, 
spare  man,  in  a  suit  of  black 
ready-made  clothes  that  seemed  not  to  fit 
him  in  any  place,  and  to  be  a  cheap  imi- 
tation of  a  clergyman's  frock  suit.  He 
wore  cotton  gloves.  At  his  feet  was  a 
shiny  handbag  made  of  some  inexpensive 
material  to  imitate  alligator  skin.  His 
hair  and  his  heavy,  drooping  mustache 
were  black.  His  face  was  narrow,  the 
cheek  bones  high,  the  mouth  straight.  One 
of  the  man's  eyes  was  partly  grown  over 
with  a  cataract,  and  his  effort  to  see  equal- 
ly with  that  eye  gave  him  a  curious,  squint- 
55 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ing  expression.  He  pulled  up  on  the  road- 
side, got  out,  tied  his  horse  to  a  fence 
rail  with  one  of  the  lines,  took  out  his 
handbag,  and  came  over  to  the  little  group 
waiting  by  the  bars. 

"Good  evening,  brethren,"  he  said. 
"The  doctor  told  me  that  Nicholas  Parks 
had  been  called  to  his  account,  so  I  came 
up  to  give  him  Christian  burial." 

"He  died  sudden,  I  guess,"  replied  one 
of  the  men. 

"It's  God's  way,"  said  the  preacher. 
"The  sinner  is  taken  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye." 

He  drew  off  his  cotton  gloves  and  put 
them  into  his  pocket. 

"Have  any  preparations  been  made  for 
the  burial?"  he  inquired. 

"The  grave's  dug,"  said  one  of  the 
men. 

"How  about  the  coffin?" 
56 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"We  don't  know  about  the  coffin,  we 
haven't  been  to  the  house." 

"Is  any  one  up  at  the  house?" 

"We  think  the  new  School-teacher's  up 
there.  Little  David  went  up  to  see,  but  he 
ain't  come  back." 

"I  didn't  know  the  new  School-teacher 
had  come." 

"He  got  here  last  night,"  said  the  mil- 
ler. 

"What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"He's  a  man  that  the  children  will 
like,"  replied  the  woman. 

"Children,"  said  the  preacher,  "are  not 
competent  judges  of  men.  Let  us  go  up 
to  the  house.  Is  he  elderly?" 

"I  thought  he  was  mighty  young,"  said 
the  woman. 

"The  young,"  replied  the  preacher, 
"are  rarely  impressed  with  the  awful  sol- 
emnity of  God's  commandments." 

"I  think  he's  a  good  man,"  said  the 
57 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

woman.  "Martha  loved  him  right  away, 
an'  I'd  trust  him  with  anything  I've  got." 

"Our  Mother  Eve  trusted  the  serpent," 
replied  the  preacher. 

And  he  extended  his  right  arm,  the 
fingers  stiffiy  together,  the  thumb  up. 

"The  youth  of  the  community  ought 
to  be  brought  up  in  the  fear  of  God." 

During  the  conversation,  the  miller's 
little  daughter  had  gone  on  to  the  house. 

Something  vague,  intangible,  unde- 
fined had  stopped  the  men  in  the  road 
below  the  house,  and  made  them  await 
the  arrival  of  the  preacher.  But  that  thing 
had  not  affected  the  children.  The  little 
boy  David  and  this  child  had  gone  on 
without  the  least  hesitation. 

The  preacher  threw  down  one  of  the 
pole  bars  and  went  through  into  the 
meadow.  The  others  followed  him  along 
the  path  to  the  house.  As  they  drew  near 
they  heard  the  voices  of  the  children.  At 
58 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  threshold  the  preacher  stopped,  and 
those  behind  him  crowded  up  to  look  into 
the  house. 

The  door  was  open.  The  sun  enter- 
ing, filled  the  room  with  light. 

On  chairs  in  the  middle  of  this  room 
stood  a  coffin  made  of  the  odds  and  ends 
of  rough  boards,  but  marvelously  joined. 
Beside  it  stood  the  School-teacher,  and  at 
either  end  was  one  of  the  children;  the 
three  of  them  were  fitting  a  board  on  the 
coffin  for  a  lid,  and  they  were  talking  to- 
gether. 

When  the  minister  entered,  the  School- 
teacher removed  the  board  and  laid  it 
down  on  the  floor,  and  the  two  children, 
as  by  some  instinct,  drew  near  to  the 
man,  on  either  side,  and  took  hold  of  his 
hands. 

They  became  instantly  silent. 

The  minister  went  up  to  the  chair, 
looked  a  moment  into  the  coffin  and  took 
59 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

his  place  at  the  head  of  it.  The  others 
followed. 

The  dead  man  lay  in  the  rough  box 
like  one  asleep.  There  was  in  his  face  a 
peace  so  profound  that  the  hard,  mean, 
ugly  features  of  this  old  man  seemed  to 
have  been  remodeled  under  some  marvel- 
ous fingers. 

The  minister,  with  his  bad  eye,  seemed 
not  to  observe  this  transfiguration,  but 
the  others  marked  it  and  crowded  around 
the  coffin. 

The  minister  took  out  his  watch,  looked 
at  it,  and  snapped  the  case. 

"If  you  will  find  seats,  we'll  begin  the 
service,"  he  said.  "The  stranger  here 
seems  to  have  made  all  necessary  prepa- 
rations for  the  burial." 

The  crowd  drew  back  from  the  coffin, 
the  School-teacher  went  and  sat  in  the 
doorway  in  the  sun;  the  little  boy  stand- 
60 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ing  up  by  his  knees,  the  little  girl  beside 
him  on  the  doorstep. 

The  minister  began  a  discourse  on  the 
horrors  of  an  eternal  hell. 

But  the  attention  of  the  audience 
moved  past  him  to  the  man  seated  in  the 
door.  The  harmony,  grouping  the  man 
and  these  two  children,  seemed  to  enter 
and  fill  the  room.  A  certain  common  sym- 
pathy uniting  them,  as  though  it  were 
the  purity  of  childhood. 

The  man  sitting  in  the  door  did  not 
move. 

He  looked  out  toward  the  south  over 
a  sea  of  sun  washing  a  shore  of  tree  tops. 
A  vagrant  breath  of  the  afternoon  moved 
his  brown  hair.  He  seemed  not  to  hear 
the  minister,  not  to  regard  the  service, 
but  to  wait  like  one  infinitely  patient  with 
the  order  of  events. 

When  the  preacher  had  finished,  the 
61 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

miller,  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window, 
rose. 

"Just  before  ole  Nicholas  died,"  she 
said,  "he  made  the  doctor  promise  to  git 
up  here  at  his  funeral  an'  tell  everybody 
that  he  left  all  his  things  to  the  School- 
teacher. The  doctor  couldn't  come  back, 
so  he  asked  me  to  git  up  an'  tell  it  for 
him." 

The  minister  turned  toward  the  woman. 

"Left  his  property  to  this  stranger?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "he  tried  all 
night  to  tell  the  doctor,  an'  he  was  mortal- 
ly afeard  that  he  would  die  before  he 
could  tell  it." 

The  School-teacher  was  now  standing 
in  the  door.  Beside  him,  and  framing  in 
his  body,  dust  danced  in  the  sun,  making 
a  haze  of  gold. 

The  minister  addressed  him. 

"Why  did   Nicholas   Parks   leave   his 
possessions  to  you?" 
62 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  School-teacher  did  not  reply. 

He  went  over  to  the  coffin,  lifted  the  lid 
and  began  to  fit  it  on  the  box.  The  men 
standing  around  the  room  came  forward 
and  took  the  coffin  up.  They  carried  it 
out  of  the  house,  their  hands  under  the 
bottom  of  it.  The  preacher  picked  up  his 
satchel  and  followed.  Outside  he  stop- 
ped, pointed  to  the  grave  in  the  meadow, 
and  spoke  to  the  School-teacher. 

"You  didn't  put  that  grave  where  old 
Nicholas  wanted  it.  He  wanted  to  be 
buried  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  between 
those  two  trees.  It  was  a  place  he  had 
picked  out.  He  told  me  so  at  the  last 
quarterly  meeting." 

The  School-teacher  lifted  his  face  and 
looked  at  the  two  great  hickories  marking 
the  spot  on  the  summit  of  the  little  mead- 
ow. His  eyes  filled  with  melancholy 
shadows,  the  smile  deepened  and  saddened 
about  his  mouth.  But  he  did  not  reply. 
63 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

Then  he  walked  away  to  where  the  two 
children  stood,  some  distance  from  the 
path. 

The  minister  followed  the  coffin  to  the 
grave,  but  the  School-teacher  went  with 
the  two  children  through  the  meadow  to 
the  spot  of  green  between  the  two  hick- 
ories. He  sat  down  there  in  the  deep 
clover,  the  children  beside  him.  Below 
came  the  sound  of  the  earth  on  the  coffin, 
and  the  high-pitched  nervous  voice  of  the 
minister.  The  School-teacher  talked  with 
the  children. 

After  a  while  a  shadow  fell  across  the 
grass. 

The  minister  was  standing  beside  them. 
He  had  come  up  from  the  filled  grave  and 
the  carpet  of  the  meadow  had  hidden  the 
sound  of  his  approach.  He  spoke  to  the 
School-teacher. 

"Do  you  think  that  you  are  old  enough 
to  teach  the  children  the  fear  of  God?" 
64 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  shall  not  teach  them  the  fear  of 
God." 

"Then  I  don't  see  how  you  are  going  to 
give  them  any  Christian  instruction." 

The  man  sitting  among  the  deep  clover 
blossoms,  looked  up  at  the  minister's  face. 

"Isn't  there  something  growing  over 
your  eye?"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  School-teacher  came  out  of 
the  door  of  Nicholas  Parks' 
house.  It  was  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Frost  glistened  on  the  rails  of  the 
worm  fence.  The  air  was  crisp  and  sweet. 
There  was  a  smell  of  faint  wood  smoke. 
The  door  of  the  house  was  fastened  with 
a  wooden  latch  on  the  inside  from  which 
a  black  leather  string,  tied  in  a  knot,  issu- 
ing from  a  worn  hole,  hung  on  the  outside 
of  the  door.  The  man  drew  the  door  close 
and,  pulling  the  string,  dropped  the  latch 
into  place.  Then  he  left  the  house,  walk- 
ing slowly. 

In  the  direction  that  he  moved  there 
66 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

was  no  path.  He  crossed  the  little 
meadow,  south  of  the  house,  climbed  the 
rail  fence  and  entered  the  forest.  There 
was  still  no  path,  although  the  man  moved 
like  one  who  followed  land  marks  that  he 
knew. 

He  descended  through  the  forest  for 
perhaps  half  a  mile  in  the  deep  leaves. 

Then  he  came  abruptly  on  a  path  that 
entered  a  little  cove  and  continued  around 
a  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  A  spring  of 
water  issuing  here  from  a  limestone  strata 
trickled  into  a  keg  buried  in  the  earth. 
On  the  broken  branch  of  a  dogwood  sap- 
ling, beside  the  spring,  hung  a  mottled 
gourd. 

The  School-teacher  stopped,  dipped  tne 
gourd  into  the  crystal  water,  and  drank. 

At  this  moment  three  figures  came  into 
view  along  the  path  from  the  opposite  di- 
rection: a  child  about  two  years  old,  a 
woman,  and  a  rough-haired  yellow  dog. 
67 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  child  came  first.  He  walked  with 
the  uncertain  tottering  gait  of  very  little 
children.  He  wore  a  clean,  white,  muslin 
dress,  a  tiny  apron  and  cheap  baby  shoes, 
such  as  one  sees  hanging  on  a  string  over 
the  counter  of  mountain  stores.  He  was 
a  sturdy  little  boy,  with  soft  yellow  hair, 
burnished  at  the  tips  like  that  of  the 
School-teacher,  and  big  gray-blue  eyes. 
He  was  laughing,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  look  back  at  the  dog  following,  and  his 
mother;  and  then  running  along  ahead. 

The  woman  was  young  and  slender. 
Her  face,  tanned  by  the  weather,  was  a 
deep  olive.  Her  hair  was  black,  lustrous 
and  heavy,  and  hung  down  her  back  in  a 
thick  plait.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  big. 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  woman  was  that 
of  one  untimely  matured,  and  permanent- 
ly saddened.  Her  blue  dress  was  of  a 
cheaper  material  than  that  of  the  child's. 
68 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

She  carried  a  tin  bucket  with  a  wooden 
handle. 

The  woman  and  the  dog  stopped  when 
they  saw  the  School-teacher  standing  by 
the  spring.  But  the  child  greeted  the 
stranger  in  his  baby  dialect. 

"How-da-do  man,"  he  said.  He  went 
on,  the  little  feet  tottering  over  the  un- 
even path.  When  he  reached  the  School- 
teacher, he  spoke  again. 

"Up-a-go,"  he  said. 

The  man  stooped  and  lifted  the  child 
into  his  arms.  The  sunny  smile  that 
lighted  the  baby  face  seemed  to  enter  and 
illumine  his  own.  Something  of  it,  too, 
moved  into  the  face  of  the  woman,  but 
the  cast  there  of  perpetual  melancholy 
seemed  loath  to  depart,  as  though  the 
muscles  were  unaccustomed  to  a  change. 

The  child  turned  about  in  the  man's 
arms,  and  pointed  his  finger  toward  two 
69 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

catbirds  that  were  fluttering  in  a  neigh- 
boring bush. 

"Giggles,"  he  said. 

The  manner  in  which  the  woman's  big 
melancholy  eyes  followed  every  motion  of 
the  little  boy  indicated  how  her  heart  en- 
veloped him.  He  was  evidently  her  one 
treasure.  The  smile,  struggling  to  pos- 
sess the  woman's  face,  seemed  to  descend 
and  sweeten  her  mouth. 

"He  means  them  birds,"  she  said.  "He's 
got  a  kind  a  talk  of  his  own." 

"I  understand  him  perfectly,"  said  the 
man. 

"Do  you?"  said  the  woman,  the  smile 
gaining  in  her  face.  "I  thought  nobody 
could  understand  him  but  me.  You  must 
take  to  little  children." 

"I  love  little  children,"  replied  the 
School-teacher. 

The  child  put  his  hand  into  the  pocket 
of  his  apron  and  drew  out  a  battered  toy 
70 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

— a  cheap,  little,  painted,  wooden  toy,  so 
broken  and  worn  that  no  one  could  tell 
what  animal  it  was  originally  intended  to 
represent.  He  held  it  up  for  the  School- 
teacher's admiration. 

"Gup,"  he  said. 

"He  means  a  horse,"  the  woman  ex- 
plained. "He's  heard  folks  down  to  the 
mill  say  'git  up'  to  horses  they  was  ridin', 
an'  he  thinks  that's  the  name  of  it,  but  he's 
got  names  of  his  own.  Now  he  calls  a 
bird  an'  a  fish  an'  a  mouse  a  'giggle.'  I 
don't  know  why.  Because  a  bird  ain't 
like  a  fish,  an'  neither  one  of  them  ain't 
like  a  mouse." 

"I  believe  I  understand  why  he  gives 
them  all  the  same  name,"  replied  the 
School-teacher. 

The  woman  came  closer  to  the  man  and 
the  child.  Her  eyes  took  on  an  expression 
of  deep  inquiry. 

71 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"What  do  you  reckon  is  the  reason? 
I've  thought  about  it  often." 

"I  think  it's  because  a  bird,  a  fish  and 
a  mouse  all  appear  to  him  to  have  the  same 
motion,  to  wiggle." 

The  woman's  face  cleared.  "I  never 
thought  of  that.  I  reckon  that  is  it.  But 
now,  he's  got  names  that  ain't  like  the 
things  at  all.  Because  he  calls  milk 
'bugala'  and  there  ain't  no  such  word  as 
'bugala.'  An'  if  it's  sour  or  anything  he 
calls  it  'nim  bugala.' ' 

The  woman  recalled  with  the  word,  the 
morning  when,  to  wean  him,  she  had 
blackened  her  breast  with  charcoal,  and 
the  child  had  pushed  away  the  blackened 
breast  with  his  little  hand  and  said,  "nim 
bugala." 

"And  he  calls  everything  else  to  eat  'A 
B.'  Now  why  would  he  call  milk  'bugala' 
an'  bread  an'  butter  'A  B'?" 

The  School-teacher  saw  that  this  mys- 
72 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

tery  attaching  to  the  child  was  dear  to 
the  woman,  and  he  could  not  disturb  it. 

"Little  children  are  very  wonderful," 
he  said. 

"They  are  wonderful,"  the  woman  con- 
tinued. "Just  think  of  the  things  they 
learn  when  they  are  real  little." 

She  jerked  her  head  toward  the  dog 
remaining  behind  her  in  the  road. 

"Why,  he  learned  Jim's  name  when  he 
was  awful  little.  He  called  him  'Nim' 
an*  that's  purty  near  right." 

Her  face  again  became  deeply  thought- 
ful. 

"I'd  like  to  know  if  his  word  'nim,' 
like  he  says  'nim  bugala,'  has  anything  to 
do  with  Jim's  name.  It  sounds  like  it, 
but  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be,  because 
'nim'  means  something  that  he  don't  like, 
an'  he  does  like  Jim.  He's  powerful  fond 
of  Jim." 

73 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  School-teacher  thoughtfully  con- 
sidered the  problem. 

"It  might  be  that  he  has  watched  you 
give  Jim  the  things  that  you  did  not  want 
to  eat  yourself,  and  so  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  all  such  food  belonged  to  Jim. 
It  would  not  mean  that  he  did  not  like 
Jim.  It  would  only  mean  that  the  things 
that  did  not  taste  right  to  him  ought  to 
be  given  to  Jim.  They  were  not  good 
things,  they  were  'mm*  things." 

The  woman's  mouth  opened. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  "just  think  of  him 
putting  things  together  like  that,  an'  him 
so  little?" 

Then  she  looked  up  at  the  man  with  a 
sort  of  wonder. 

"Why,  you  understand  him  better  than 
I  do,  an'  I'm  his  mother.  Maybe  you're 
married  an'  got  a  little  boy  of  your  own." 

"I  was  never  married,"  replied  the  man. 
74 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Then  maybe  you've  got  a  little  baby 
brother." 

"No." 

"Was  there  never  any  little  children  at 
your  house?" 

"My  father's  house,"  replied  the 
School-teacher,  "is  full  of  little  children." 

"Just  little  children  that  he  takes  care 
of?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you've  been  with  'em  a  lot." 

"I  am  always  with  them,"  replied  the 
School-teacher. 

"I  could  a-told  that,"  said  the  woman, 
"by  the  way  Sonny  takes  to  you.  I  could 
a-told  that  you  was  used  to  little  children, 
an'  that  you  liked  them."  She  indicated 
the  tiny  boy  with  a  bob  of  the  head.  "He 
knows  it  right  away;  babies  and  dogs  al- 
lers  knows  it  right  away." 

She  regarded  the  man  for  some  minutes 
75 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

in  silence.    Then  she  spoke  like  one  come 
after  thought  to  a  conclusion. 

"I  'spose  you're  the  new  School-teach- 
er?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  you're  goin'  down  to  the  school- 
house  now." 

"Yes." 

"Then  if  you'll  wait  till  I  git  a  bucket 
of  water,  I'll  show  you  the  way  down. 
The  path  goes  out  by  our  house." 

She  went  over  to  the  spring  and  dipped 
the  bucket  into  the  keg.  The  dog  that  had 
been  lying  down  in  the  path,  his  head  low- 
ered between  his  paws,  now  crawled  up  to 
the  man  and  began  to  lick  his  feet. 

The  little  boy  looked  down  and  shook 
his  tiny  fist  at  the  dog. 

"Ge-out,  Nim!"  he  said. 

The  woman  rose  with  the  bucket  of 
water. 

76 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"You  don't  have  to  carry  him,"  she  said, 
"he  can  walk  real  well." 

"I  would  rather  carry  him,"  replied  the 
School-teacher. 

And  he  followed  the  woman  along  the 
path,  the  dog  at  his  heels. 

They  turned  the  shoulder  of  the  ridge 
and  came  out  on  a  flat  bench  of  the  moun- 
tain. Here  stood  a  little  cabin,  built  of 
logs  and  daubed  with  clay.  It  was  roofed 
with  rough  clapboards.  Before  it  was  a 
porch  roofed  like  the  cabin.  The  door, 
swinging  on  wooden  hinges,  stood  open. 
On  the  puncheon  floor  was  a  piece  of 
handmade  carpet — a  circular  mat,  hand- 
plaited  out  of  rags,  a  primitive  cradle 
with  wooden  rockers,  a  bed  covered  with 
a  pieced  quilt,  a  rough  stone  fireplace,  an 
iron  pot  with  a  lid  and  a  black  iron  ket- 
tle. On  the  porch  stood  a  split-basket 
full  of  beans  in  the  hull,  and  beside  the 
basket  two  chairs,  the  seats  of  plaited 
77 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

hickory  bark.  One  of  them  was  very 
small,  a  chair  in  miniature,  made  for  the 
little  boy.  Near  the  path  was  an  ax,  a 
hacked  log  and  some  lighter  limbs  of 
trees,  such  as  a  woman  might  carry  in 
from  the  forest.  Beside  the  chimney  was 
a  primitive  hopper  made  of  clapboards, 
holding  wood-ashes,  and  under  this  was 
a  broken  iron  pot  in  which  lye,  obtained 
from  the  ashes  by  pouring  water  on  it, 
dripped. 

Beyond  the  cabin  was  a  bit  of  garden 
and  a  little  cornfield,  where  the  ripened 
corn  stood  in  yellow  shocks  bound  with 
grapevines.  The  shocks  were  small,  such 
as  a  woman  could  reach  around.  About, 
on  the  bench,  were  a  grove  of  sugar  trees, 
scarred  with  the  marks  of  an  auger,  and 
among  them,  here  and  there,  a  great 
hickory.  Beyond  the  grove  one  heard  the 
faint  tinkling  of  a  bell  where  a  cow  moved 
in  the  forest. 

78 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  woman  set  the  bucket  of  water  on 
the  porch  and  turned  to  take  the  child. 

"Come,  sonny." 

The  little  boy  drew  back  in  the  man's 
arms. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"But,  sonny,"  the  woman  continued, 
"the  Teacher's  goin'  away  down  the 
road." 

"Baby  go  wif  him  down  woad." 

The  woman  coaxed,  "Won't  sonny  stay 
with  Jim  and  mother?" 

"Nim  an'  muvver  go  woad." 

"No,"  said  the  woman,  "Jim  an'  mother 
ain't  goin'  down  the  road.  Will  sonny 
go  an'  leave  Jim  an'  mother?" 

The  little  boy  looked  over  the  man's 
shoulder  at  the  rough-haired  yellow  dog. 
Jim  was  his  housemate  and  his  brother.  A 
decision  was  a  sore  trial,  but  he  finally 
made  it.  He  turned  about  in  the  man's 
arms. 

79 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Baby  go  woad,"  he  said. 
The  man  now  entered  the  conversation. 
"Let  him  go  with  me." 
"But  he's  too  little  to  go  to  school." 
"He  is  not  too  little  to  go  with  me." 
"But  he'll  bother  you,  won't  he?" 
"No,  he  will  not  bother  me.     He  will 
help  me." 

"He  can't  help  you." 
"Yes,  he  can  help  me." 
"I  don't  see  how  he  can  help  you." 
"He  will  remind  me  of  the  little  chil- 
dren in  my  father's  house." 

"Keep  you  from  gettin'  homesick?" 
"Yes,"     replied     the     School-teacher, 
"that  is  it.    He  will  keep  me  from  getting 
homesick." 

"Well,"  said  the  woman,  "if  I  let  him 
go,  you'll  take  care  of  him,  won't  you?" 
"I  will  surely  take  care  of  him." 
"An'  you'll  bring  him  back  before  sun- 
down." 

80 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Yes." 

"Well,  it'll  be  powerful  lonesome,  but  I 
reckon  I  can  finish  gather  in'  the  beans. 
I  will  fix  him  somethin'  to  eat.  You  can 
put  it  in  your  pocket." 

The  woman  went  into  the  house,  got  a 
flat  bottle,  such  as  a  cheap  sort  of  lini- 
ment is  sold  in  at  the  mountain  stores, 
scalded  it  out  with  water  and  filled  it  with 
fresh  milk.  Then  she  cut  some  thin  slices 
of  a  white  bread  called  "salt  rising"  and 
spread  it  with  butter.  She  stopped  with 
the  knife  in  her  hand,  considered  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  cut  two  larger  pieces  of 
bread,  buttered  them,  and  wrapped  them 
all  in  a  piece  of  homespun  linen  towel. 
She  went  out  to  the  man  with  the  folded 
towel  and  the  bottle  in  her  hand. 

"Here's  his  milk  an'  here's  his  bread. 
I  put  in  two  pieces  for  you." 

The  man  put  the  bottle  and  the  bread 
81 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

into  his  pocket  The  light  of  his  great 
gray-blue  eyes  deepened. 

"You  also  thought  of  me,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  see  you  carryin'  any  dinner," 
replied  the  woman,  "an*  the  bread's  nice. 
I  had  powerful  good  luck  yesterday.  I 
don't  allers  have  such  luck,  but  everything 
turned  out  right  with  the  bakin'  some- 
how." 

The  man  went  on  with  the  little  boy  in 
his  arms,  but  the  dog  remained.  He  sat 
miserably  in  the  path,  his  tail  moving  in 
the  leaves,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  woman's 
face.  For  a  time  the  woman,  watching 
the  disappearing  figures,  did  not  notice 
the  dog.  Then  she  saw  him,  knew  his  dis- 
tress and  spoke. 

"You  can  go  along,  Jim,"  she  said. 

The  dog  ran  barking  after  the  man  and 

little  boy.     He  overtook  them  and  went 

on  ahead.    At  the  point  where  the  path 

entered  the  forest,  the  man  turned  and 

82 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

looked  back  at  the  woman.  She  did  not 
move,  but  the  smile,  struggling  all  the 
morning  to  conquer  her  face,  finally  pos- 
sessed it. 

The  School-teacher,  the  little  boy  and 
the  dog  continued  to  descend  the  moun- 
tain. The  child  addressed  every  object 
with  which  he  was  familiar.  When  they 
passed  the  brindle  cow,  cropping  broom 
sedge  beside  the  path,  he  hailed  it  with  a 
salutation. 

"How-da-do,  boo,"  he  said. 

Leaves,  burning  red  with  autumn  color, 
he  explained,  were  "dowers." 

Finally  they  came  to  the  river,  running 
shallow  between  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
and  the  farther  bench  on  which  the  school- 
house  stood.  The  child  had  not  crossed 
this  water,  and  he  was  afraid  for  the  man 
to  attempt  it.  He  put  his  little  hand  firm- 
ly on  the  man's  arm  to  stop  him. 

The  School-teacher  stopped,  and  the 
83 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

child  considered  this  new  and  unaccus- 
tomed peril.  He  sat  studying  the  water, 
his  restraining  hand  on  the  man's  arm. 
Finally,  the  dog,  growing  impatient  at 
the  delay,  entered  the  river  and  began  to 
wade  across.  The  child  removed  his  hand. 
His  fears  were  ended.  The  crossing  was 
safe.  He  directed  the  man's  attention  to 
the  proof  of  it. 

"Nun  walk  in  wat,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

N  THE  grove  before  the  log 
schoolhouse,  the  Teacher  was 
playing  a  game  with  the  children. 
It  was  a  game  in  which  every  child  to  the 
tiniest  one  could  join.  Two,  standing  op- 
posite, with  raised  arms  and  the  fingers 
linked,  formed  a  sort  of  arch,  through 
which  the  others  passed  in  a  circle,  holding 
one  another's  hands.  They  all  sang  as 
they  marched  some  verses  of  a  mountain 
song,  ending  with  the  line,  "An*  catch  the 
one  that  you  love  best." 

When  the  song  came  to  this  line,  those 
forming  the  arch  brought  their  arms  down 
over  the  head  of  the  child  passing  at  that 
85 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

moment,  and  he  left  the  circle  and  took 
the  place  of  one  of  those  forming  the 
arch.  As  each  child  wished  to  catch  the 
School-teacher,  the  man  remained  stand- 
ing while  the  children  changed. 

The  little  boy  David  had  just  been 
caught.  The  child,  standing  with  the 
School-teacher,  had  taken  his  place.  The 
circle  had  begun  once  more  to  move,  the 
song  to  rise,  when  the  miller's  daughter, 
Martha,  stopped,  disengaged  her  hand 
from  the  child  before  her  and  pointed  to 
the  road. 

"There  comes  Sol  an'  Suse.  I  wonder 
what's  the  matter,  for  Sol's  got  his  arm 
tied  up." 

The  School-teacher  stood  up  and  looked 
over  the  heads  of  the  children.  A  man 
was  approaching.  The  sleeves  of  a  red 
wammus  were  tied  around  his  neck,  form- 
ing a  sort  of  rude  sling  in  which  his  right 
arm  rested,  held  horizontally  across  his 
86 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

breast.    'A  woman,  carrying  a  baby,  was 
walking  beside  him. 

The  School-teacher  spoke  to  the  little 
girl. 

"Martha,"  he  said,  "y°u  and  David 
take  the  children  into  the  schoolhouse,  I 
am  going  out  to  meet  these  people.'* 

When  the  children  had  gone  in,  and 
the  door  was  closed,  the  man  went  down 
into  the  road.  He  waited  there  until  the 
two  persons  approached.  He  saw  that 
both  the  woman  and  the  man  were  young, 
the  baby  but  a  few  months  old — a  little 
family  beginning  to  found  a  home  in  the 
inhospitable  mountain. 

The  man  was  evidently  injured.  The 
woman  was  in  distress.  Her  eyes  were 
red.  The  muscles  of  her  mouth  trembled. 
The  baby,  in  her  arms,  wrapped  in  an  old 
faded  shawl,  wailed. 

The  School-teacher  spoke  to  the 
woman. 

87 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"What  has  happened?"  he  said. 

"My  man's  got  hurt." 

"How  was  he  hurt?" 

"He  was  choppin'  in  his  clearin',  an' 
his  ax  ketched  in  a  grapevine,  an'  throwed 
him.  I  reckon  his  shoulder's  all  broke. 
He  can't  use  his  arm  none." 

The  School-teacher  addressed  the  man. 

"How  does  your  arm  feel?" 

"I  suppose  the  jint's  smashed." 

The  tears  began  to  run  down  over  the 
woman's  face. 

"I  don't  see  why  we  have  such  luck," 
she  said,  "an'  just  when  we  was  a-gittin' 
sich  a  nice  start.  Now,  he  can't  work  in 
his  clearin',  an'  if  he  don't  git  his  clear- 
in'  done  this  winter,  we  won't  have  no 
crop,  an'  I  don't  know  what'll  become  of 
us." 

The  man  began  to  chew  his  lip. 

"Don'  cry,  Susie,"  he  said. 
88 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Yes,  I'll  cry,"  replied  the  woman, 
"for  here's  me  an'  the  baby  with  nothin', 
and  you  laid  up." 

"Maybe  I  ain't  hurt  so  bad,"  the  man 
suggested. 

The  woman  continued  to  cry. 

"I  know  better'n  that,  you're  hurt 
bad." 

"Where  were  you  going?"  said  the 
School-teacher. 

"We  were  a-goin'  to  the  doctor,"  re- 
plied the  woman.  "We  thought  we'd 
make  as  far  as  the  mill,  an'  he  could  wait 
there,  an'  I  could  git  Sally  to  keep  the 
baby  while  I  went  after  the  doctor." 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  doctor?" 

"It's  a-goin'  on  fourteen  mile  from  the 
mill,  an'  that  ain't  the  worst  of  it.  He 
won't  come  unless  he  gits  the  money,  an' 
we  ain't  got  no  money  to  throw  away  on 
a  doctor." 

89 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

She  opened  her  hand  and  disclosed  a 
crumpled,  greasy  note. 

"That  there  five-dollar  bill  is  the  very 
last  cent  that  we've  got.  An'  when  it's 
gone  I  don't  know  where  we'll  git  any 
more,  with  him  hurt,  an'  me  with  a  lit- 
tle sucklin'  baby." 

The  woman  began  to  sob. 

"I'm  jist  ready  to  give  up." 

The  School-teacher's  big  gray-blue  eyes 
filled  with  a  kindly  light. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  said,  "perhaps  I  can 
do  something  for  your  husband's  shoul- 
der." 

He  went  over  to  the  man.  What  the 
School-teacher  did,  precisely,  these  per- 
sons were  never  afterward  able  to  de- 
scribe. The  event  in  their  minds  seemed 
clouded  in  mystery.  A  wonder  had  been 
accomplished  in  the  road,  in  the  sun,  in 
the  light  before  them,  but  they  could  not 
90 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

lay  hold  upon  the  sequence  of  the  detail. 
The  voice  of  the  School-teacher  presently 
reached  them  as  from  a  distance. 

"It's  all  right  now,"  he  said. 

The  man  doubled  the  arm  and  extended 
it.  The  woman  came  running  up. 

"Kin  you  use  it,  Sol?" 

The  man  continued  to  move  the  arm. 

"It  'pears  like  I  kin,"  he  said;  "it  'pears 
like  it's  well." 

"Kin  you  use  it  good?" 

"It  'pears  like  I  kin  use  it  good  as  I 
ever  could." 

"Well,  sir!"  ejaculated  the  woman,  "if 
I  hadn't  a  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes,  I 
wouldn't  never  a-believed  it." 

The  School-teacher  remained  standing 
for  a  moment  in  the  road  after  the  moun- 
taineers had  gone. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  children, 
waiting  in  the  schoolhouse.  He  called 
them  out  into  the  grove  before  the  door, 
91 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

and  took  his  place  in  the  game,  bending 
over  to  hold  the  hands  of  the  tiniest  child. 
The  circle  began  once  more  to  move.  The 
song  to  rise. 

"An'  catch  the  one  that  you  love  best." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


T  WAS  not  the  only  adventure 
that  the  School-teacher  was  des- 
tined to  meet  with  on  this  day. 
As  he  was  returning  along  the  mountain 
road,  with  the  little  boy  on  his  shoulder,  at 
the  first  ascent,  beyond  the  river  crossing, 
he  met  two  men  in  a  buckboard.  The 
horses  were  gaunt  as  from  hard  usage. 
The  man  who  drove  them  was  known  to 
the  School-teacher.  The  other  was  a  big 
man  with  a  heavy  black  beard.  He  sat 
leaning  over  in  the  buckboard.  His  head 
down.  His  shoulders  rising  in  a  hump. 
He  had  gone  stooped  for  so  long  that  the 
hump  on  his  shoulders  was  now  a  sort  of 
permanent  deformity. 
93 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

They  drew  up  by  the  roadside  as  the 
School-teacher  approached.  The  big, 
hump -shouldered  man  spoke,  without 
taking  the  trouble  to  preface  his  remarks 
with  any  form  of  salutation. 

"Do  you  claim  old  Nicholas  Parks* 
estate?" 

The  School-teacher  regarded  him  with 
his  deep,  tranquil,  gray-blue  eyes. 

"It  belongs  to  my  father,"  he  said. 

"Is  your  father  related  to  old  Nicho- 
las?" 

"No." 

"Has  he  got  a  deed  from  old  Nicholas?" 

"No." 

"Then  how  does  he  claim  under  him?" 

"He  does  not  claim  under  him.  Nicho- 
las Parks  had  his  possession  from  my 
father." 

"You  mean  that  your  father  owned  it 
first?" 

"Yes." 

94 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Did  he  sell  to  Nicholas?" 

"No." 

"Then  how  did  old  Nicholas  come  to 
own  it?" 

"He  never  owned  it;  my  father  per- 
mitted him  to  use  it." 

"Then  your  claim  is  that  old  Nicholas 
was  just  a  tenant  for  life." 

"Yes,"     replied     the     School-teacher, 
"that  was  it,  a  tenant  for  life." 

"Did  your   father  give  Nicholas   any 
writing?" 

"No." 

"Did  Nicholas  pay  anything  for  the 
use  of  the  land?" 

"No." 

"Did  he  ever  recognize  your  father's 
title  while  he  was  living?" 

"No." 

"Then  he  never  knew  that  your  father 
owned  these  lands?" 
95 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Yes,"  replied  the  School-teacher,  "in 
the  end  he  knew  it." 

"How  did  he  know  it,  if  he  did  not  find 
it  out  while  he  was  living?" 

"He  found  it  out  while  he  was  dying," 
replied  the  School-teacher. 

The  big  humpback  looked  out  sidewise 
at  the  man  standing  in  the  road,  with  the 
child  on  his  shoulder,  its  little  arm  around 
his  neck,  its  little  fingers  on  his  face. 

"Didn't  you  come  into  these  mountains 
about  the  time  that  old  Nicholas  died?" 

"On  the  very  day  that  he  died,"  replied 
the  School-teacher. 

"I  see,"  said  the  humpback,  "then  he 
found  it  out  through  you." 

"No,  man,"  replied  the  School-teacher, 
"ever  finds  out  anything  about  the  affairs 
of  my  father  except  he  find  it  out  through 
me." 

"Then  you're  here  to  look  after  your 
father's  business?" 

96 


The  Mountain  School-Teach  r 

"Yes,"  replied  the  School-teacher, 
"that  is  it,  I  am  here  to  look  after  my 
father's  business." 

"An*  so  you  moved  in  when  old  Nicho- 
las died?" 

"Yes." 

"I  see,"  said  the  humpback,  "now  I 
want  to  ask  you  another  question.  These 
lands  belonged  to  the  state.  Old  Nicholas 
bought  from  the  state,  and  the  state  made 
him  a  deed.  Do  you  contend  that  your 
father's  title  is  older  than  that  of  the 
state?" 

"Yes." 

The  humpback  compressed  the  muscles 
of  his  mouth  and  nodded  his  head  slowly. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "your  father  claims  the 
lands  of  Nicholas  Parks  under  some  old 
patent  that  gives  him  a  color  of  title  and 
he  has  sent  you  here  to  get  into  possession. 
A  color  of  title  is  not  good  at  law  without 
possession.  Well,  I  can  tell  you,  the 
97 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

state's  not  going  to  lie  by  and  allow  you 
to  acquire  adverse  possession.  Old  Nicho- 
las Parks  died  without  heirs,  and,  by  the 
law,  his  property  escheats  to  the  state. 
So  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  get 
off." 

He  reached  over,  caught  the  whip  out 
of  its  socket,  and  struck  the  horses.  They 
jumped  and  the  buckboard  went  clatter- 
ing down  the  mountain,  the  wheels  bounc- 
ing on  the  stones. 

The  little  boy  raised  his  hand  and 
pointed  his  tiny  finger  at  the  departing 
horses. 

"Man  hurt  gups,"  he  said. 

The  School-teacher  stood  in  the  road 
watching  the  humpback  lash  the  half- 
starved  team.  His  face  was  full  of  mis- 
ery. 


mi. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE     School-teacher    had    been 
helping  the  miller. 

He  had  taken  the  shirts  which 
she  had  offered  to  him,  but  he  had  re- 
fused to  put  upon  her  the  labor  of  mak- 
ing up  the  big  piece  of  linen  that  re- 
mained. 

"Keep  it,"  he  said,  "until  I  need  it." 

All  of  Saturday  he  had  been  at  work 

mending  the  wooden  water  wheel.    In  the 

evening  he  set  out  to  return  to  Nicholas 

Parks'  house.    He  took  the  short  way  up 

the  mountain.    When  he  came  out  on  the 

great  hickory  ridge,  the  sun  was  not  yet 

down.     He  stopped  where  the  path  en- 

99 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

tered  the  two  roads,  one  turning  along 
the  ridge  to  his  house,  the  other  winding 
down  the  mountain,  eastward,  toward  the 
far-off  lumber  mills,  sometimes  faintly  to 
be  indicated  by  a  tiny  wisp  of  smoke  on 
the  horizon. 

There  had  been  a  gentle  rain,  and  now 
under  the  soft  evening  sun  the  earth 
seemed  to  recover  something  of  the  virility 
of  springtime,  as  though  the  impulse  of 
life  waning  in  the  autumn  were  about  to 
reconquer  its  dominion.  Here  and  there, 
in  the  moist  earth,  a  little  flower  crept 
out,  as  though  tricked  into  the  belief  that 
it  was  springtime — a  white  strawberry,  a 
tiny  violet. 

The  sap  seemed  about  to  move  under 
the  bark  of  the  beech  trees,  the  buds  to 
issue  from  the  twigs. 

In  the  forest  the  wren  and  the  catbirds 
fluttered  as  under  a  nesting  instinct,  the 
gray  squirrels  fled  around  the  rough  shell- 
100 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

bark  trees  and  from  one  tree  top  to  an- 
other, far  off  a  pheasant  drummed,  and 
farther  off  a  mountain  bull  lowed  as  he 
wandered  through  the  forest. 

The  road  descending  the  mountain  was 
decked  out  in  color,  banked  along  its  bor- 
der with  the  poison  ivy  and  the  Virginia 
creeper,  now  a  mass  of  scarlet.  Above  the 
beech  and  hickory  leaves  were  yellow,  the 
clay  of  the  road  below  was  yellow,  and  the 
soft  sunlight  entered  and  fused  the  edges 
of  these  colors.  The  forest  for  this  hour 
took  on  the  ripe  expectancy  of  spring- 
time. 

The  School-teacher  stood  where  the 
path  emerged  from  the  forest 

Presently  from  below  him,  beyond  the 
turn  of  the  road,  a  voice  arose,  a  voice 
full,  rich  and  sensuous — a  woman's  voice 
singing  a  song.  It  carried  through  the 
forest,  swaggering,  defiant  melody.  The 
words  could  not  be  determined.  Indeed, 
101 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

there  seemed  to  be  no  words.  The  song 
was  a  thing  of  sounds — of  tropical,  sensu- 
ous sounds.  As  though  all  the  love  calls 
of  the  creatures  of  the  forest  had  been 
fused  into  one  great,  barbaric  symphony. 

A  moment  later  the  singer  came  into 
view. 

She  was  a  young,  buxom  woman,  and 
she  walked,  singing,  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  with  a  defiant  swagger.  Her  hair 
was  heavy  and  yellow  like  wheat  straw. 
Her  lips,  colored  purple  from  the  wild 
grapes  which  she  had  been  eating,  were 
full,  the  under  one  drooping  a  little  at  the 
middle.  Her  face  was  whitened  with  a 
cheap  powder  to  be  had  at  the  village 
store.  Her  bodice  and  her  petticoat  were 
of  bright  vivid  colors.  There  was  a  crim- 
son handkerchief  tied  around  her  neck,  a 
cheap  glittering  bangle  on  her  wrist, 
heavy,  gilded  earrings  hanging  in  the 
lobes  of  her  ears,  and  at  her  throat  a 
102 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

breastpin  of  jet  set  in  a  lattice  work  of 
brass. 

The  School-teacher  remained  motion- 
less. He  watched  the  woman  approach- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  road,  her  body 
swinging  loose  in  her  swaggering  stride, 
and  the  full  volume  of  her  voice  aban- 
doned to  her  song. 

She  was  halfway  up  the  bend  of  the 
road  before  she  realized  that  another  was 
within  sound  of  her  voice.  Then  she  saw 
the  School-teacher  and  stopped. 

The  song  ceased. 

Her  head  went  up  and  her  eyes  opened 
wide.  She  remained  as  though  the  power 
to  move  had  been  on  the  instant  stricken 
out  of  her.  Her  foot  advanced,  her  heel 
lifted,  her  mouth  shaped  to  sing.  Then, 
slowly,  her  face  changed  to  an  expression 
of  profound  astonishment. 

The  School-teacher  did  not  speak.  He 
did  not  move.  The  sun  descending  behind 
103 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

him  slowly  crept  up  the  road  to  his  feet, 
as  though,  bidden  to  withdraw  from  the 
world,  it  were  loath  to  leave  him. 

The  woman's  face  again  changed.  It 
became  troubled.  She  moved  now  a  few 
steps  closer,  softly,  on  tiptoe.  Then,  sud- 
denly, with  a  swift  gesture,  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  burst  into 
tears.  Her  body  shook  as  with  a  convul- 
sion. The  tears  streamed  through  her 
fingers. 

Until  now  the  School-teacher  had  not 
moved.  Now  he  came  slowly  along  the 
road  to  where  she  stood.  As  he  ap- 
proached, the  woman  sank  down  huddled 
together,  her  face  covered,  her  bosom 
heaving,  her  hands  wet.  He  stood  before 
her  in  the  road  looking  down  at  the  bowed 
head. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said. 

The  woman  continued  to  sob.  The  eyes 
of  the  School-teacher  deepened  with  a 
104 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

profound  sorrow.  He  stooped  over  to  put 
his  hand  on  the  coarse  yellow  hair,  re- 
dolent with  a  cheap  perfume.  But  before 
the  descending  fingers  touched  her,  the 
woman  sprang  up  and  flew  like  a  wild 
thing  into  the  forest. 

The  sun  was  now  gone. 

The  tropical  colors  of  the  leaves,  the 
vines,  the  yellow  earth,  departed  with  it. 
The  gray  twilight  began  to  descend.  The 
School-teacher  walked  slowly  to  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  and  returned  along  the  little 
meadow  to  Nicholas  Parks*  house.  As  he 
approached  he  saw  a  figure  moving  off 
down  the  mountain  along  the  rail  fence. 

When  he  came  to  the  house  he  stopped. 

There  was  a  paper  tacked  on  the  door. 
He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  but  he  did 
not  touch  it.  The  four  corners  of  the 
paper  were  doubled  under  and  a  tack  at 
each  end  held  it.  He  pulled  the  worn 
leather  string,  lifted  the  wooden  latch  and 
105 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

went  in,  leaving  the  paper  fastened  to 
the  door. 

The  night  had  descended. 

The  house  was  dark.  But  when  he  en- 
tered it,  on  the  instant,  as  though  the 
opening  of  the  door  had  made  a  draft 
through  the  fireplace,  a  log  smoldering 
shot  up  a  red  flame  that  illumined  the 
house. 

The  School-teacher  went  over  to  a  table 
that  stood  by  the  wall. 

On  this  table  were  a  homemade  cheese 
and  the  half  of  a  loaf  of  bread.  Beside 
them  was  a  knife  with  a  wooden  handle 
and  a  thick  china  plate  chipped  at  the 
rim.  Before  this  table  was  a  hickory 
chair,  the  seat  of  roughly  plaited  bark. 
The  School-teacher  sat  down  and  ate  his 
supper. 

Everything  in  this  house  remained  as 
Nicholas  Parks  had  left  it. 

This  chair,  this  table,  a  larger  hickory 
106 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

chair  with  arms  and  a  ragged  cushion  by 
the  fireplace,  a  fourpost  bed  in  the  corner 
covered  with  a  patchwork  quilt.  When 
Nicholas  Parks  died  there  had  been,  as 
now,  a  log  on  the  fire,  a  cheese  and  a  loaf 
of  bread  on  the  table. 

There  were,  however,  now  on  this  table, 
before  the  School-teacher,  some  objects 
that  had  not  been  there.  There  was  a  little 
worn,  broken  toy  that  had  once  been  a 
wooden  horse;  there  was  a  top  whittled 
out  of  a  spool  with  a  hickory  pin  through 
it.  There  was  a  Barlow  knife  with  an 
iron  handle,  the  blade  broken  at  the  point ; 
there  was  a  brass  ring  tied  to  a  cotton  rib- 
bon ;  and  there  were  little  bunches  of  wild 
flowers,  the  stems  of  which  were  primly 
wrapped  with  black  thread.  These  were 
laid  out  on  the  table  beyond  the  cheese 
and  the  loaf.  And  before  he  sat  down  to 
eat,  the  School-teacher  touched  them. 

When  he  had  finished  his  supper,  the 
107 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

School-teacher  went  over  to  the  fireplace 
and  sat  down  in  the  armchair.  -He  sat  be- 
side the  hearth  where  he  could  see  the 
door.  He  remained  for  a  long  time  with- 
out moving,  except  now  and  then  he 
looked  toward  the  door,  and  when  there 
came  to  him  any  sound  from  the  night 
outside,  he  listened. 

The  night  advanced.  He  remained  in 
in  the  chair  before  the  fire.  The  log  con- 
tinued to  burn  among  the  ashes  in  the 
fireplace.  But  it  no  longer  flamed.  It 
burned  with  a  deep  crimson  glow  that 
flooded  the  hair,  the  face,  the  hands  of  the 
School-teacher.  The  glow  thus  reflected 
seemed  to  take  on  a  deeper  crimson. 

It  became  like  the  crimson  of  blood. 

The  School-teacher  hardly  ever  moved 

except  to  raise  his  head  to  listen,  but  he 

was  not  asleep ;  there  was  no  sleep  in  him. 

The  glow  of  the  smoldering  log,  chang- 

108 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ing  on  his  face,  gave  it  an  expression  of 
agony. 

The  night  continued  to  advance;  the 
hours  passed.  The  vagrant  sounds  of  the 
world  outside  ceased.  The  profound 
silence  of  midnight  arrived  and  passed. 
The  temperature  changed. 

But  the  School-teacher  did  not  go  to 
bed. 

He  sat  in  the  fantastic  glow  of  the  fire, 
with  its  agony  on  him.  Now  and  then, 
when  the  playing  of  the  light  seemed  to 
convulse  his  features — seemed  to  distort 
them  with  a  deeper  agony,  he  turned  his 
face  toward  the  table  standing  along  the 
wall,  near  the  door,  and  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  broken  toy  horse,  the  top,  the  Barlow 
knife,  the  ring  and  little  bunches  of  flow- 
ers; and  turned  thus  out  of  the  glow  of 
the  fire,  his  features  no  longer  presented 
the  aspect  of  agony.  Moreover,  when  his 
head  was  turned  like  that,  the  glow  of  the 
109 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

fire,  that  had  been  thus  distorting  his  face, 
passed  by  him  and  streamed  over  the  ob- 
jects on  the  table,  bringing  them  into 
vivid  contrast  with  every  other  object  in 
the  room. 

The  body  of  the  night  passed. 

The  morning  began  to  arrive.  And  still 
the  School-teacher  waited.  No  one  came. 
The  room  was  profoundly  silent.  The 
breath  of  the  morning  entering,  distilled 
a  faint  perfume  out  of  the  little  bunches 
of  wild  flowers,  a  vague  odor  that  arose 
and  sweetened  the  room.  The  night  was 
dead.  The  day  was  beginning  to  be  born. 
Then  it  was  that  the  one  for  whom  the 
School-teacher  waited  finally  came. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  outside,  as 
though  one  approached  walking  softly  on 
the  grass,  as  though  a  hand  passed  gently 
along  the  door. 

The  School-teacher  rose. 

The  latch  of  the  door  moved,  the  door 
110 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

turned  noiselessly  on  its  hinges,  and  the 
woman  who  had  fled  from  the  School- 
teacher into  the  forest  entered. 

The  whole  aspect  of  the  woman  was 
changed. 

The  purple  stains  on  her  mouth,  the 
powder  on  her  face,  were  gone.  Her  hair, 
too,  had  been  cleansed  of  its  cheap  scent. 
It  clung  in  damp  strands  about  her  face. 
The  swagger,  the  defiance,  the  loud  notes 
and  color  had  gone  out  of  her.  And  that 
which  remained  after  these  things  were 
gone,  now  alone  existed — as  though  the 
whole  fabric  of  the  woman  had  been 
washed  with  water.  The  woman  put  her 
hand  swiftly  to  her  face,  to  her  hair;  she 
caught  her  breath. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "I  thought  you  were 
asleep." 

The  School-teacher's  voice  was  incom- 
parably gentle. 

Ill 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  waiting  for 
you." 

"Then  you  thought  I  would  come?" 
"I  knew  that  you  would  come." 
"I  had  to  come,"  she  said.    "I  could  not 
go  back  to — to — the  other!" 

"No,"  he  said,   "you  never  could  go 
back  to  that." 

"An' — an' — I  had  nowhere  else  to  go." 
"I    know   that,"    replied   the    School- 
teacher, "there  is  no  place  that  you  could 
go,  except  to  me." 


CHAPTER  X 

HE    children    had    bought    the 
School-teacher  a  hat.  It  had  been 


a  large  undertaking,  and  the 
cause  of  innumerable  secret  conferences  in 
the  grove  behind  the  schoolhouse.  The 
purchase  of  so  costly  a  thing  as  a  hat  re- 
quired a  certain  sum  of  money.  To  raise 
this  sum  of  money,  the  children  had  been 
put  to  the  most  desperate  straits.  Every 
tiny  store  that  any  child  possessed  had 
been  brought  forward  and  contributed  to 
the  common  fund.  The  difficulty  did  not 
lie  in  the  drawing  on  this  store.  Although 
every  contribution  meant  a  sacrifice  to 
the  donor,  no  child  had  hesitated.  There 
113 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

had  been  no  question  about  what  each 
should  give,  and  no  inquiry  as  to  a  holding 
back  of  resources.  Every  child  had  sim- 
ply given  all  he  had. 

Ancient  two-cent  pieces  with  holes  in 
them,  worn  nickles,  one  or  two  long-treas- 
ured ten-cent  pieces,  and  one-cent  pieces 
thumbed  with  counting,  were  withdrawn 
from  snuffboxes,  essence  of  coffee  boxes, 
pill  boxes,  holes  in  the  wall,  from  under 
the  loose  stones  of  the  hearth  and  other 
safety  deposit  places — wherever  the  child 
had  deemed  it  expedient  to  keep  his  treas- 
ures. Sometimes,  however,  this  treasure 
was  in  the  custody  of  older  persons,  and 
the  obtaining  of  it  had  presented  difficul- 
ties. 

The  whole  school  had  often  gone  into 
counsel  on  these  cases,  ways  and  means  de- 
vised, a  proper  motive  constructed,  and 
the  child  strengthened  and  drilled.  When 
the  device  succeeded,  the  whole  school  for 
114 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

that  day  rejoiced,  when  it  failed,  the 
school  was  depressed,  but  it  was  not  de- 
feated, and  some  other  plan  was  brought 
forward.  Some  of  the  plans  were  exceed- 
ingly ingenious,  and,  as  a  rule,  the  school 
prevailed. 

However,  when  the  whole  store  was 
finally  collected,  or  as  much  as  could  be 
had,  the  children  were  confronted  with  a 
staggering  disappointment;  the  entire 
fund,  for  all  the  counting  and  recounting 
of  it,  could  not  be  made  to  exceed  sixty- 
four  cents.  A  wholesale  borrowing,  right 
and  left,  had  added  only  eleven  cents. 
Now,  it  was  well-known  that  a  hat  could 
not  be  purchased  for  less  than  a  dollar, 
and  when  it  became  evident  that  the  fund 
must  fail  by  a  fourth  of  that  sum,  the  chil- 
dren were  in  despair. 

For  a  day  or  two  almost  the  whole 
school  was  in  tears. 

Then,  individually,  it  resorted  to  des- 
115 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

perate  devices.  One  whose  grandfather 
had  been  accustomed  to  present  him  with 
ten  cents  on  Christmas  day  endeavored  to 
secure  an  advancement.  A  small  child 
had  hailed  the  doctor  as  he  passed  along 
the  road,  and  had  offered  to  work  for  him 
all  the  remainder  of  his  life  for  ten  cents 
paid  down  in  cash.  Another  had  ap- 
proached the  minister,  after  the  Sunday 
collection,  and  endeavored  to  borrow  a 
twenty-five-cent  piece  out  of  the  hat. 

These  ventures  had  failed,  and  the  lat- 
ter with  the  perilous  result  that  the  min- 
ister had  all  but  extracted  the  secret  for 
the  money,  and  his  withering  commenta- 
ries on  a  teacher  who  inculcated  the  spirit 
of  avarice  into  little  children  had  so 
stricken  the  child  with  terror  that  it  had 
been  afraid  to  tell  the  school  what  it  had 
done. 

This  brief  lapse  into  madness,  the  prac- 
tical leadership  of  Martha,  the  miller's 
116 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

little  girl,  and  the  small  boy,  David,  was 
presently  able  to  check.  They  pointed 
out  what  it  was  useless  to  do.  But  for  the 
present  they  were  not  able  to  bring  for- 
ward any  plan  that  it  seemed  worth  while 
to  undertake.  At  this  season  the  only 
natural  product  of  the  mountain  that 
could  be  exchanged  for  money  was  hick- 
ory nuts,  and  the  value  of  this  product 
was  in  doubt.  Sometimes,  early  in  cer- 
tain seasons,  the  storekeeper  had  been 
known  to  give  twenty-five  cents  for  a 
bushel  of  choice  hickory  nuts,  not  the  gross 
shellbark  nut,  but  the  small,  round,  sweet- 
kerneled  nut  of  the  smooth-bark  hickory. 
The  school  had  considered  this,  but  had 
come  always  against  two  serious  difficul- 
ties. To  secure  a  bushel  of  these  small 
nuts  would  require  a  considerable  search- 
ing of  the  mountains,  and,  despite  the 
fact  that  the  children  were  very  small, 
each  had  duties  at  home  that  occupied 
117 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

Saturdays,  and  the  evening  fragments  of 
the  day.  On  Sundays,  an  austere  theology 
imposed  by  the  minister  compelled  them 
to  attend  the  Sunday  sermon  and  to  prac- 
tice the  most  rigorous  inactivity  under 
pain  of  hideous  consequences.  The  insur- 
mountable difficulty,  however,  lay  in  the 
fact  that  they  could  not  get  a  bushel  of 
hickory  nuts  over  the  long  distance  to  the 
country  store. 

An  unexpected  event  suddenly  re- 
moved this  difficulty.  Coming  breathless- 
ly to  the  school  on  a  Friday  morning,  lit- 
tle David  announced  that  his  father  was 
going  to  the  country  store  on  Tuesday 
with  the  wagon  to  bring  home  a  barrel  of 
salt,  and  that  he  had  obtained  permission 
to  accompany  him.  At  once  the  school 
took  up  the  possibility  of  securing  the 
bushel  of  hickory  nuts.  It  was  imme- 
diately evident  that  within  so  brief  a 
time  the  thing  could  not  be  done  unless 
118 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  whole  of  Sunday  were  devoted  to  the 
labor  of  it.  The  school  promptly  decided. 

This  expedition  did  not  arise  from  any 
failure  to  appreciate  the  perils  of  the  de- 
cision. Corporal  chastisement  under  the 
home  roof  was  certain  to  follow;  and  the 
hideous  tortures  vividly  presented  by  the 
minister,  awaiting  at  the  threshold  of  his 
future  life,  that  one  who  broke  the  Sab- 
bath day,  was  scarcely  less  certain.  Nev- 
ertheless, not  a  child  of  the  whole  school 
hesitated. 

The  complete  success  of  the  venture 
strengthened  the  school  to  bear  the  im- 
mediate consequences. 

Corporal  chastisement  in  the  mountains 
was  not  apt  to  be  a  thing  lightly  adminis- 
tered. But  it  was  a  hardship  which  even 
the  smallest  children  had  come  to  regard 
as  one  of  the  inevitable  conditions  of  life. 
As  to  that  other  penalty,  which  awaited 
them  at  the  hands  of  an  outraged  and  vin- 
119 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

dictive  deity,  they  were  somehow  of  the 
opinion  that  this  malignant  god  could  not 
inflict  his  punishments  except  through 
some  overt  act  of  the  minister  who  was 
his  executive  agent.  Thus,  if  they  could 
outwit  this  dangerous  penal  vicegerent, 
the  thing  could  be  turned  aside.  In  tra- 
vail of  this  problem,  they  hit  upon  the 
plan  of  going  over  the  head  of  the  min- 
ister and  claiming  a  direct  authorization 
for  their  act.  When  approached  for  an 
explanation  of  their  conduct  they  sol- 
emnly announced  that  an  angel  had  come 
down  through  the  roof  of  the  schoolhouse 
and  directed  them  not  to  attend  the  religi- 
ous services  on  this  Sunday. 

Transported  by  the  success  of  their  un- 
dertaking; by  the  exquisite  pleasure  of 
making  this  presentation  to  the  School- 
teacher; by  the  joy  which  his  evident  hap- 
piness in  it  carried  to  every  heart;  they 
had  neglected  to  perfect  the  details  of  this 
120 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

story.  Fortunately  they  agreed  upon  the 
personal  aspect  of  the  angel,  since  every 
child,  when  driven  to  describe  this  divine 
messenger,  simply  followed  the  guidance 
of  his  affections,  and  presented  the 
School-teacher.  But  upon  a  close  and 
seaching  examination  there  had  been  a 
divergence.  How  had  the  angel  been 
clothed?  Some  of  the  children,  put  upon 
inquisition,  had  replied  that  he  had 
nothing  at  all  on;  and  others,  feeling  the 
need  for  appropriate  vestments,  had  de- 
clared that  the  angel  wore  a  red  coat  and 
blue  breeches. 

Seizing  upon  this  point,  as  a  protruding 
limb,  the  minister  had  finally  drawn  up 
the  whole  hidden  body  of  the  incident. 
And  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  confront 
the  School-teacher  with  this  piece  of  out- 
rageous conduct.  It  was  evening  when 
he  arrived.  The  school  was  coming 
through  the  little  grove  down  into  the 
121 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

road.  The  School-teacher  walked  among 
them.  The  grove  was  full  of  voices — the 
laughter  of  children.  The  School-teacher 
wore  his  new  hat,  and  every  now  and  then 
he  took  it  off  and  held  it  in  his  hand  that 
he  might  the  better  admire  it.  From  the 
day  that  he  had  received  it,  he  had  never 
ceased  to  express  his  appreciation  of  it. 
He  continued  always  to  regard  it,  as  if  in 
it  were  merged,  as  in  a  symbol,  all  the 
little  sacrifices  of  every  child,  and  all  the 
love  that  had  strengthened  each  one  to 
bear  what  the  thing  had  cost  him. 

This  never-ceasing  appreciation  of  the 
School-teacher  for  his  present  had  trans- 
ported the  school  with  pleasure.  This 
acute  happiness  the  children  were  not  al- 
ways able  to  control.  Sometimes  pride 
overcame  one,  and  he  would  tell  how  much 
he  had  contributed. 

And  always  the  smaller  children  wished 
to  hold  the  hat  in  their  hands,  so  that  it 
122 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

quickly  gathered  a  border  of  little  finger- 
prints. 

Even  the  tiny  boy,  who  had  been  too 
little  to  help  in  the  purchase  of  the  pres- 
ent, but  who  somehow  dimly  understood 
that  all  had  given  something  toward  this 
article,  had  brought  forward  a  rooster 
feather,  which  he  had  found,  and  insisted 
that  it  be  added  to  the  hat.  And  the 
School-teacher  had  very  carefully  pinned 
this  crimson  feather  to  the  band. 

Moreover,  the  habit  which  the  School- 
teacher had  acquired  of  taking  off  his  hat 
in  order  to  admire  it  before  the  children, 
seemed  to  adhere  to  him  when  he  was  by 
himself.  Of  late,  those  who  had  watched 
him  as  he  passed  along  the  mountain 
roads,  had  observed  him  at  this  habit  and 
had  marked  how  his  face,  profoundly  sad 
when  he  was  alone,  always  immediately 
brightened. 

The  school  trooping  about  the  School- 
123 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

teacher    was    emerging   from   the    grove 
when  the  minister  got  out  of  his  buggy. 

He  tied  the  horse  to  a  sapling  with  one 
of  the  lines.  Then  he  drew  his  cotton 
gloves  a  little  closer  over  his  hands,  but- 
toned his  long  black  coat  down  to  its  last 
button,  and  stood  out  in  the  road  to  await 
the  coming  of  the  School-teacher.  The 
children  and  the  School-teacher  stopped 
when  they  saw  him.  The  pleasant  laugh- 
ing voices  ceased.  The  children  gathered 
around  the  School-teacher.  The  smallest 
ones  came  close  up  and  took  hold  of  his 
hands. 

The  minister  addressed  the  School- 
teacher. His  voice  was  high  and  sharp. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  school  children 
have  done?" 

The  School-teacher  regarded  the  min- 
ister with  his  deep,  calm,  gray-blue  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

124 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Did  you  know  that  they  were  going 
to  do  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  try  to  prevent  it?" 

"No." 

The  lines  in  the  minister's  face  hard- 
ened. 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  he  said. 
"It  is  now  perfectly  evident  that  you  are 
no  fit  person  to  have  charge  of  school  chil- 
dren. The  community  must  get  rid  of 

you." 

He  turned  about  in  the  road,  untied  his 
horse,  got  into  his  buggy  and  took  up  the 
lines.  He  raised  one  of  the  lines  in  his 
cotton-gloved  hand  to  bring  it  down  on 
the  horse's  back,  but  he  paused  with  his 
arm  extended,  and  turned  abf  ut  toward 
the  School-teacher.  He  thrust  his  head 
to  one  side.  His  defective  eye  straining 

to  see. 

125 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Do  you  have  any  fear  of  God  at  all?" 
he  said. 

The  School-teacher's  calm,  gentle  voice 
did  not  change,  it  did  not  hesitate. 

"No,"  he  said,  "none  at  all." 


CHAPTER  XI 

N   SATURDAY  morning  the 
miller  hailed  the  doctor  as  he  was 
passing  the  mill. 
"Are  you  goin'  over  to  Black's?"  she 
called. 

The  doctor  stopped  his  horse. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "they  sent  me  word  to 
come." 

"By  Jonas  the  first  of  the  week?" 
"Yes." 

"For  to  see  old  Jerry's  eye?" 
"Yes." 

"Well,  it  ain't  no  use  for  you  to  go." 
"Did  his  eye  get  well  of  itself?"  in- 
quired the  doctor. 

127 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"No,  it  didn't  git  well  of  itself,"  re- 
plied the  woman.  "It  never  would  have 
got  well  of  itself.  Ole  Jerry's  been  set- 
tin'  around  with  that  eye  tied  up  ever 
since  the  day  that  he  thrashed  out  his 
wheat.  He'd  a-been  blind  in  it  all  the  rest 
of  his  life  if  it  hadn't  a-been  for  the 
S  chool-teacher . ' ' 

The  doctor  turned  around  in  his  sad- 
dle. 

"What  did  the  School-teacher  do  to 
him?"  he  said. 

"He  cured  him,"  replied  the  miller. 

The  doctor  had  ridden  past  the  mill  be- 
fore he  stopped.  Now  he  rode  back.  The 
miller  stood  on  the  porch  before  the  door. 
The  doctor  sat  on  his  horse  in  the  road, 
the  loose  bridle  rein  over  his  crooked  arm, 
his  good  hand  resting  heavily  on  the  pom- 
mel of  the  saddle. 

"How  did  he  cure  him?"  inquired  the 
doctor. 

128 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  don't  know  how  he  cured  him,"  re- 
plied the  miller. 

"Didn't  you  hear?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  I  heard,"  replied  the  miller. 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "what  did  you 
hear?" 

"I  heard  that  he  took  ole  Jerry  to  one 
side  an'  he  asked  him  if  he  could  see  any- 
thing with  that  eye.  An'  ole  Jerry  said 
that  he  couldn't  tell  a  man  from  a  tree 
with  it.  Then  the  School-teacher  put  his 
hands  on  his  eye,  an'  he  made  him  look 
up  an'  and  when  the  School-teacher  got 
through  ole  Jerry  could  see.  But  he  com- 
plained that  his  eye  felt  hot  an'  the 
School-teacher  told  him  to  hold  a  piece  of 
wet  clay  against  it — you  know  that's  aw- 
ful good  to  draw  out  soreness — an'  the 
next  morning  ole  Jerry's  eye  was  well. 
Now,  how  do  you  suppose  he  done  it?" 

"I  don't  suppose  how  he  done  it,"  re- 
plied the  doctor.  "I  know  how  he  done  it. 
129 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

Ole  Jerry  got  a  wheat  husk  in  that  eye 
when  he  was  thrashing,  and  it  stuck 
against  the  lid  back  of  the  ball.  The 
fools  that  looked  into  his  eye  by  pushing 
the  lid  up  couldn't  see  it.  But  when  any- 
body come  along  with  sense  enough  to 
turn  the  lid  back  he  got  the  husk  out  and 
the  eye  got  well." 

The  miller  crumpled  the  corner  of  her 
apron  in  her  hand. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  said. 
"Did  you  hear  how  the  School-teacher 
cured  Sol  Shreave's  shoulder  that  he 
smashed  in  his  clearing?" 

"Yes,  I  heard  it,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"I  was  pretty  apt  to  hear  it." 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  about  that?" 
said  the  miller. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  piece  of  meddling 
with  my  practice,"  replied  the  doctor.  "It 
kept  me  out  of  a  five-dollar  fee." 

"But  it  was  wonderful,"  said  the  miller. 
130 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"No,  it  wasn't  wonderful,"  replied  the 
doctor. 

The  miller  spoke  slowly.  She  nodded 
her  head  between  each  word. 

"To  cure  a  man's  shoulder  that  was 
smashed,  just  by  takin'  hold  of  his  arm, 
wouldn't  that  be  a  wonder?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  would  be 
a  hell  of  a  wonder." 

"Well,"  said  the  woman,  "didn't  the 
School-teacher  do  it?" 

"No,  he  didn't  do  it,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"Then  you  don't  think  it's  so,  about  the 
School-teacher  fixin'  Sol's  shoulder?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  so,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor. 

"Then  what  makes  you  say  it  ain't  a 
wonder?" 

"Because  it's  a  thing  anybody  could 
do,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"Charm  a  smashed  shoulder  well?r' 

"No,"  replied  the  doctor,  "rotate  a  dislo- 
131 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

cated  joint  into  place.  When  Sol  Shreave 
caught  his  ax  in  the  grapevine  he  twisted 
the  ball  on  the  big  bone  of  his  arm  out  of 
the  socket  of  the  shoulder,  and  when  the 
School-teacher  took  hold  of  his  arm  and 
rotated  it  around  in  the  right  way  it  went 
back  into  place." 

The  miller  crossed  her  hands  over  her 
apron.  She  took  hold  of  the  palm  of  her 
left  with  the  fingers  of  her  right.  She 
gave  her  head  a  little  jerk.  Her  eyebrows 
contracted. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  said. 

She  remained  for  a  moment  looking 
down  at  the  mill  porch,  then  she  looked 
up. 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  "did  you  ever  hear 
of  anybody  that  was  dead  bein'  brought 
back  to  life?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  have  heard 
of  it  ever  since  I  could  remember." 

"Then  it  has  happened?" 
132 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"No,"  said  the  doctor.  "It  never  has 
happened.  When  you're  dead,  you're 
dead." 

The  doctor  took  a  watch  out  of  his 
pocket.  It  was  a  heavy,  old,  silver  watch, 
tied  to  his  waistcoat  buttonhole  with  a 
buckskin  string.  He  opened  it,  exam- 
ined it  for  a  moment,  then  snapped  the 
lid  and  thrust  it  back  into  his  pocket. 
When  he  looked  around  the  miller  was 
standing  in  the  roadside  beside  the  horse. 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  "I'm  a-goin'  to  tell 
you  somethin'  that  I  never  told  anybody." 

"What  about?"  said  the  doctor. 

"About  what  I've  just  said,"  replied 
the  woman. 

The  doctor  reflected  for  an  instant,  then 
he  remembered.  He  shifted  his  position 
in  the  saddle.  His  voice  showed  annoy- 
ance. 

"What  cock-an'-bull  story  have  you  got 
a-hold  of  now?"  he  said. 
133 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"It's  no  cock-an'-bull  story,"  replied 
the  miller.  "It's  the  God's  truth." 

The  doctor  made  a  deprecating  gesture 
with  his  crooked  arm. 

"Now,  look  here,  Sal,"  he  said,  "I 
haven't  time  to  listen  to  all  the  tales  you've 
heard." 

"It  ain't  anything  I've  heard,"  replied 
the  miller. 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"It's  something  I  saw." 

"Did  you  see  it  yourself?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Now,  Sal,"  said  the  doctor,  "don't  be- 
gin to  tell  me  something  you  thought  you 
saw." 

"I'm  not  a-goin'  to  tell  you  somethin' 
that  I  thought  I  saw.  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell 
you  something  that  I  did  see." 

"All  right,"  said  the  doctor,  "go  on  and 
tell  it.  What  did  you  see?" 

The  woman  drew  a  little  closer. 
134 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Well,"  she  said,  "one  Saturday  the 
School-teacher  come  down  here  to  help 
me,  an'  he  brought  Mary  Jane's  little  boy 
with  him.  He's  awful  little.  He  ain't 
two  yet.  The  School-teacher  left  him 
with  me  while  he  went  down  under  the 
mill  to  fix  one  of  the  wheel  paddles.  Well, 
Martha  was  gone  an'  there  was  nobody 
here  but  me  to  'tend  things.  An'  I  got 
to  movin'  around  and  forgot  the  little  boy. 
An'  when  I  went  to  look  for  him — I  hope 
I  may  die! — if  he  wasn't  a-layin'  drown- 
ded  at  the  bottom  of  the  millrace.  Lord- 
amighty!  I  was  crazy.  I  jumped  in  an' 
got  him  out,  an'  begun  to  holler  for  the 
School-teacher  to  come.  But  he  was  dead. 
I  knowed  he  was  dead.  His  little  lips 
was  blue,  an'  his  poor  little  hands  was 
cold." 

The  tears  came  into  the  woman's  eyes 
at  the  memory. 

"Lordy,  Lordy!"  she  said,  "I  knowed 
135 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

he  was  all  that  Mary  Jane  had  in  the 
world.  I  knowed  her  soul  was  wrapped 
up  in  him.  I  knowed  it  would  kill  her." 

The  woman  stopped  and  wiped  her  eyes 
with  her  apron. 

"Well,  the  School-teacher  come  a-run- 
nin'  an'  took  him  out  of  my  arms,  an' 
carried  him  into  the  house.  An'  I  just 
stood  there  in  the  road  like  I  was  dazed. 
But  after  a  while  I  sort  a  come  to  myself, 
an'  I  tiptoed  up  on  the  porch,  an'  I 
looked  in  the  door.  An'  the  little  boy  was 
layin'  on  the  bed,  an'  the  School-teacher 
was  a-bendin'  over  him.  Then  I  thought 
of  Mary  Jane  again.  An'  Lord-a'- 
mighty!  I  thought  I'd  die.  I  went  down 
off  the  porch.  An'  I  reckon  I  was  crazy, 
because  I  started  out,  an'  I  run  just  as 
hard  as  I  could  right  up  the  road.  I 
reckon  I  run  for  half  a  mile.  Then  I 
thought  I  heard  the  School-teacher  callin' 
me.  An'  I  come  back  with  my  apron 
136 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

over  my  head  a-cryin'.  An*  when  I  got 
right  here  in  the  road,  I  did  hear  him,  an' 
he  said,  'Don't  be  distressed,  for  the 
child's  all  right.'  An'  I  took  my  apron 
off  my  head,  an'  I  looked  in  the  door,  an' 
there  set  the  School-teacher  by  the  stove 
with  the  little  boy  wrapped  in  a  blanket 
— an'  he  was  alive." 

The  woman  stopped,  lifted  her  shoul- 
ders, and  took  in  a  deep  breath,  like  one 
who  has  concluded  a  violent  exertion. 
She  wiped  her  face  with  her  apron. 

"Well,  he  told  me  to  make  haste,  an' 
dry  out  the  little  boy's  clothes — he  had 
nice,  little,  white  clothes,  Mary  Jane's 
awful  particular  about  him — an'  I  did, 
an'  I  ironed  them  so  they'd  be  just  like 
they  was  before  he  fell  in.  Then  we  put 
the  clothes  back  on  him.  An'  the  School- 
teacher took  him  home.  An'  he  was  just 
as  well  as  he  was  before  he  was  drownded. 
An'  the  School-teacher  told  me  not  to  tell 
137 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

anybody.  I  suppose  he  didn't  want  Mary 
Jane  to  find  it  out.  It  would  only  distress 
her  for  nothing." 

The  woman  folded  her  arms  across  her 
bosom,  and  looked  up  at  the  doctor. 

"Now,  then?"  she  said. 

The  doctor  sat  back  in  his  saddle.  He 
dropped  his  crooked  arm  by  his  side.  He 
addressed  the  woman,  speaking  with  a 
perceptible  pause  between  each  word. 

"So  you  thought  he  raised  the  dead,  did 

you?" 

"Didn't  I  see  him  do  it?"  replied  the 
woman. 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  you're  that 
big  a  fool,  there's  no  use  to  talk  to  you." 

He  turned  around  in  the  saddle,  gath- 
tred  up  the  reins,  and  kicked  the  horse 
with  his  heel.  He  passed  out  of  sight  in 
the  direction  of  Jerry  Black's  house.  The 
miller  remained  standing  in  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ERRY  BLACK'S   house  was 
beyond  Hickory  Mountain,  in  the 
direction  of  the  far-off  lumber 
mills. 

It  was  afternoon  before  the  doctor  re- 
turned. He  rode  hard  in  anger.  He  had 
gone  on  to  Black's  house,  determined  to 
make  the  old  man  pay  him  for  his  visit. 
But  the  mountaineer,  now  that  his  eye 
was  healed,  had  refused.  The  doctor 
stormed  and  threatened,  but  the  moun- 
taineer was  obdurate.  The  School-teacher 
had  cured  him.  He  owed  nothing.  He 
would  pay  nothing. 

The  doctor  was  compelled  to  return 
empty-handed,  and  he  rode  hard. 
139 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

A  deep  resentment  against  the  man  who 
thus  interfered  with  his  practice  moved 
within  him.  When  he  came  to  Hickory 
Mountain,  instead  of  following  the  road 
around  by  the  mill,  he  took  the  one  lead- 
ing across  through  the  lands  of  Nicholas 
Parks.  It  was  mid-afternoon  when  he 
stopped  in  the  road  before  the  School- 
teacher's house.  He  called.  A  woman 
came  to  the  door,  her  heavy  hair  the  color 
of  wheat  straw.  The  doctor  made  an  ex- 
clamation of  profound  astonishment. 

"Yaller  Mag!"  he  said.  "Now  what's 
that  hussy  doin'  here?" 

When  the  woman  saw  that  the  person 
in  the  road  was  the  doctor,  she  went  back 
into  the  house  and  presently  came  out 
with  a  brown  earthen  crock.  She  walked 
down  the  path  from  the  door  bearing  the 
crock  in  her  hand.  When  she  came  out 
into  the  road,  she  held  the  crock  up  to  the 
doctor. 

140 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"The  School-teacher  told  me  to  give  you 
this  money  when  you  come,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  handful  of  silver  coins  in 
the  crock. 

Again  the  doctor  was  astonished. 

"When  I  come !"  he  echoed.  "How  did 
he  know  that  I  was  coming?" 

"I  don't  know  how  he  knew  it,"  replied 
the  woman. 

"What  did  he  tell  you  to  give  it  to  me 
for?" 

"He  didn't  tell  me." 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  pieces  of  sil- 
ver. 

"I  suppose  this  is  money  that  the  peo- 
ple have  paid  him.  How  much  did  old 
Black  pay  him?" 

"He  never  paid  him  anything,"  replied 
the  woman.  "Nobody  ever  paid  him  any- 
thing." 

"Who  give  him  this  money  then?" 

"Nobody  give  it  to  him,"  said  the 
141 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

woman.  "It  was  in  that  crock  on  the  shelf 
when  old  Nicholas  Parks  died.  It  ain't 
been  touched." 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  dust-covered 
handful  of  silver. 

"If  nobody  pays  him,  an'  he  hasn't  used 
any  of  this,  where  does  he  get  money  to 
buy  things  with?" 

"He  don't  buy  anything." 

"What  does  he  live  on,  then?" 

"Well,"  said  the  woman,  "when  Nicho- 
las Parks  died,  there  was  flour  in  the  bar- 
rel. It  ain't  run  out.  It  looks  like  it 
never  would  run  out.  Now,  will  you  take 
the  money,  so  I  can  get  some  feed  for  the 
horse?" 

Again  the  doctor  was  astonished. 

"How  do  you  know  that  the  horse 
hasn't  been  fed?" 

"I  don't  know  it,"  replied  the  woman. 

"Then  what  do  you  want  to  feed  him 
for?" 

142 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  want  to  feed  him,"  replied  the 
woman,  "because  the  School-teacher  told 
me  to." 

"Told  you  to  feed  my  horse?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me  to  give  you  this  money 
and  to  feed  your  horse.  Are  you  goin' 
to  take  the  money?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor.  "I'm  not  goin' 
to  take  it.  I  want  to  see  the  School- 
teacher himself.  Where  is  he?" 

"He's  down  at  Mary  Jane's  house." 

"Is  she  the  one  that's  got  the  woods- 
colt?" 

"She's  the  one  that's  got  the  little  boy," 
replied  the  woman. 

"Huh!"  said  the  doctor.  "What's  he 
doin'  there?" 

"He's  huskin'  her  corn." 

"So  he  spends  his  time  helpin'  the 
women  who  have  no  men  folks  about,  too, 

does  he?" 

143 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  woman  looked  up  at  the  doctor. 
Her  face  undisturbed  by  the  taunt. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "He  spends  his  time 
helpin'  those  who  have  nobody  else  to 
help  them." 

The  doctor  did  not  reply.  He  gathered 
his  bridle  up  in  his  hand.  The  woman 
moved  around  in  front  of  the  doctor. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  let  me  feed  the 
horse?" 

"The  horse  can  stand  it  just  as  well 
as  I  can,"  said  the  doctor. 

"But  you  can  help  it,"  replied  the 
woman,  "an'  the  horse  can't  help  it." 

"It  won't  hurt  him  to  wait  till  I  eat." 

"Would  it  hurt  you  to  wait  till  he 
eats?" 

"It  wouldn't  do  me  much  good,  if  any- 
body was  to  see  me  waitin'  here,"  said  the 
doctor. 

A  flush  of  color  sprang  into  the 
woman's  face. 

144 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"I  only  wanted  to  feed  him,"  she  said, 
"because  the  School-teacher  told  me  to." 

"Get  out  of  my  way,"  said  the  doctor. 
"This  School-teacher  has  interfered  with 
my  business  just  about  as  much  as  I'm 
going  to  put  up  with." 

He  clucked  to  his  horse,  and  rode 
around  the  woman.  When  he  had  gone 
forward  a  few  paces,  he  made  a  gesture 
with  his  crooked  arm. 

"Is  there  a  path  over  the  mountain  this 
way?"  he  called  without  turning  in  his 
saddle. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  woman,  "it  runs 
down  past  the  house." 

She  remained  standing  by  the  gate  with 
the  crock  in  her  hand. 

The  doctor  entered  the  forest. 

The  colors  lying  far  down  the  mountain 

in  the  sun  were  like  those  of  an  oriental 

carpet.     Soft  shades  of  green,  of  yellow, 

of  crimson,  kneaded  into  a  harmony  of 

145 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

low,  unobtrusive  tones  that  the  sun 
warmed  and  illumined.  Near  at  hand, 
along  the  path,  where  the  doctor  rode,  the 
sumacs  stood  a  dull  red,  the  chest- 
nut bushes  yellow,  the  wild  cherry  leaves 
turning  on  their  edges,  the  oaks  crimson 
like  a  flame,  the  water  beeches  green,  the 
hickory  leaves  curling  on  their  twigs  like 
shavings  of  gold. 

The  scene  lay  out  below  the  doctor  in 
the  sun,  incomparably  painted,  but  he  did 
not  see  it.  He  rode  looking  down  at  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle.  Now  and  then, 
when  the  horse  stumbled,  he  brought  it 
up  with  a  wrench  of  the  bit.  The  horse 
was  tired.  It  went  forward  with  its  head 
down.  Dust  lay  around  its  eye-pits. 
There  were  gray  bands  of  dried  sweat 
running  parallel  with  the  leather  of  the 
headstall,  and  beyond  the  borders  of  the 
saddle  blanket. 

At  a  turn  of  the  path  a  dog  appeared, 
146 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

his  yellow  hair  rising  on  his  back.  As  the 
doctor  came  on,  the  dog  slowly  retreated, 
growling,  holding  his  place  in  the  road 
until  the  horse  was  almost  upon  him, 
then  springing  back,  his  teeth  flashing,  his 
eyes  on  the  doctor.  The  dog  did  not 
bark,  he  made  no  considerable  sound,  he 
refused  to  attack  the  horse,  but  he  con- 
tinued always  to  menace  the  approach  of 
the  doctor. 

They  passed  the  spring  and  came  out 
before  the  house  and  the  little  cornfield. 
Then  the  dog  began  to  bark,  and  a  tiny 
voice  arose. 

"Ge-out,  Nim!"  it  said. 

This  patch  of  clearing,  lying  within  the 
many-colored  garden  of  the  forest,  seemed 
illumined  with  a  warmer  sunlight.  The 
effect  doubtless  arose  from  the  carpet  of 
coarse  brown  fox-grass  grown  up  over  the 
cornfield,  into  which  the  sun  seemed  to 
enter  and  remain.  Two  or  three  small 
147 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

maple  trees,  abundantly  leaved,  stood 
about,  flaming  scarlet. 

Under  one  of  these  trees  the  School- 
teacher was  at  work. 

A  corn  shock,  unbound,  lying  on  the 
ground  before  him.  He  was  on  his  knees, 
bareheaded,  without  a  coat,  ripping  the 
husk  from  the  ear  with  a  wooden  "peg" 
bound  to  his  middle  finger,  snapping  it  at 
the  socket  and  tossing  it  out  on  a  heap 
before  him. 

The  ears  coming  from  the  School- 
teacher's hands  were  long,  full-grained 
and  of  a  deep  yellow. 

The  two  children,  Martha  and  David, 
were  gathering  this  corn  into  a  split  bas- 
ket and  carrying  it  to  a  crib  made  of  rails 
and  roofed  with  clapboards.  Near  the 
School-teacher,  sitting  on  his  coat  spread 
out  on  the  ground,  was  the  tiny  boy  who 
had  called  to  the  dog.  He  was  shelling 
148 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

a  red  ear  of  corn  into  the  School-teacher's 
hat. 

A  brush  fence  inclosed  the  cornfield. 

The  doctor  pulled  up  in  the  path  beside 
the  fence.  The  School-teacher  arose.  He 
stood  bareheaded  in  the  sun  under  the 
canopy  of  flaming  leaves.  He  looked  past 
the  doctor  to  the  horse,  standing  with  its 
legs  out,  its  head  down. 

"I  understand  you're  practicin'  medi- 
cine," said  the  doctor. 

"Your  horse  is  tired,"  replied  the 
School-teacher. 

"There's  a  law  against  practicin'  med- 
icine without  a  license,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Your  horse  is  hungry,"  continued  the 
School-teacher. 

The  doctor,  riding  on,  replied  with  an 
oath. 

"You're  going  to  get  into  trouble,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ARLY  on  Monday  morning  an 
old  man  driving  a  gray  mare  in 
a  two-wheeled  cart  came  slowly 
up  the  road  to  the  schoolhouse.  A  lank 
colt  followed  the  mare.  The  cart  was 
very  old,  no  vestige  of  paint  remained  on 
it,  one  of  the  shafts  was  wrapped  with 
wire,  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  made  of 
small  slats,  was  loose.  The  man  was 
heavy  and  the  cart  creaked.  He  drove 
slowly,  his  big  body  filling  the  seat  on 
which  for  comfort  he  had  placed  a  folded 
bedquilt. 

He  stopped  in  the  road  below  the 
schoolhouse  and  got  slowly  out  of  the 
creaking  cart. 

150 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

One  of  his  legs  was  swollen  with 
scrofula,  and  stiff  to  the  knee.  He  moved 
it  with  difficulty.  He  left  the  mare  stand- 
ing in  the  road,  the  colt  beside  her,  and 
came  through  the  grove  to  the  school- 
house  door.  The  stiff  leg  gave  his  heavy 
body  an  awkward  swing.  He  supported 
himself  with  a  stout  stick. 

When  he  came  finally  to  the  school- 
house,  he  sat  down  on  the  step  before  the 
door.  He  had  evidently  moved  faster 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  do,  and  he  re- 
mained for  a  moment  breathing  heavily, 
his  big  bulk  covering  the  step.  Then  he 
got  a  memorandum  book  and  a  pencil  out 
of  his  pocket.  The  memorandum  book 
was  one  of  those  cheap  advertisements  of 
patent  medicine  which  are  given  away  at 
the  country  store.  It  contained  a  few 
pages  blank  on  one  side  and  printed  with 
virtues  of  the  medicine  on  the  other.  The 
pencil  was  a  little  more  pretentious  than 
151 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  ordinary  one.  It  consisted  of  a  tin 
case  containing  a  long,  thin  core  of  purple 
lead,  the  end  of  which  could  be  made  to 
protrude  for  writing  by  pressing  the 
thumb  on  the  opposite  end  of  the  case. 

The  old  man  turned  the  leaves  of  the 
memorandum  book,  wetting  his  fore- 
finger in  his  mouth,  until  he  found  a  blank 
page.  Then  he  laid  the  book  on  his  knee, 
pressed  the  case  of  the  pencil,  touched  the 
tip  of  the  lead  to  his  tongue,  and  labori- 
ously wrote. 

"This  schoolhouse  is  closed,  by  order 
of  P.  Hamrick,  Trustee." 

He  tore  the  leaf  out,  rose  and  pinned 
it  to  the  door. 

It  was  some  distance  through  the  grove 
of  ancient  trees  to  the  road,  and  he  started 
to  return.  In  spite  of  his  bulk  and  his 
stiff  leg  he  endeavored  to  hurry.  He 
thrust  his  stout  stick  out  before  him  on  the 
path,  and  swung  forward,  his  weight  f orc- 
152 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ing  the  point  of  the  stick  into  the  earth. 
In  order  that  he  might  not  fall,  and  to 
find  each  time  a  safe  place  for  the  stick, 
he  moved  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Presently  the  end  of  the  stick  slipped 
on  a  pebble,  and  he  lurched  forward.  He 
saved  himself  from  falling  by  grasping 
the  crook  of  the  stick  with  both  hands, 
tottered  a  moment,  then  he  regained  his 
balance  and  looked  up. 

The  School-teacher  stood  before  him. 

The  old  man  remained  holding  to  the 
stick,  breathing  with  difficulty.  The 
School-teacher  was  some  distance  away, 
motionless  in  the  path.  He  had  evidently 
seen  the  man  coming  from  the  schoolhouse 
door,  and  had  stopped  there  in  the  path 
to  observe  him. 

The  School-teacher  spoke. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  schoolhouse?" 
he  said. 

153 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Yes,"  replied  the  man,  "I've— I've 
been  out  to  the  schoolhouse." 

"To  see  me?"  said  the  School-teacher. 

"Well,  no,"  replied  the  man,  "not  ex- 
actly to  see  you." 

"To  see  the  school?" 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly  to  see  the 
school."  Then  he  added,  "I'm  the  trustee. 
I've  been  looking  over  the  schoolhouse. 
I  think  I'll  be  goin'  on." 

"Why  do  you  hurry?"  said  the  School- 
teacher. 

"I  must  be  gettin'  home,"  said  the  old 
man. 

He  reached  forward  with  his  stick,  but 
again  the  point  of  it  slipped  and  he  nearly 
fell. 

The  School-teacher  looked  past  the 
man  toward  the  schoolhouse. 

"What  is  that  on  the  door?"  he  said. 

The  old  man  turned  around.  The  leaf 
from  the  memorandum  book,  fastened 
154 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

with  the  pin,  fluttered  on  the  door,  as 
though  it  were  a  living  thing  struggling 
to  free  itself. 

"That's  a  piece  of  paper,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"Who  put  it  there?" 

"I  did." 

"What  for?" 

"It's  a  kind  of  notice." 

"A  notice  to  me?" 

"A  notice  about  the  schoolhouse." 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  with  the 
schoolhouse?" 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  don't 
think  it's  just  exactly  safe." 

"Not  safe  for  the  children?" 

"Well,  no,  it  mightn't  be  safe  for  the 
children." 

"What  is  wrong  with  the  schoolhouse?" 
said  the  School-teacher. 

The  old  man  began  to  talk.  "Well," 
he  said,  "it's  got  a  good  roof.  Old  Dix 
155 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

put  that  roof  on.  Every  one  of  the  clap- 
boards is  planed  with  a  drawin'  knife. 
An'  the  weatherboardin'  is  good.  It  was 
seasoned  weatherboardin'.  But  the  floor 
might  be  bad." 

"I  have  mended  the  floor,"  replied  the 
School-teacher. 

"It  ain't  so  much  the  floor,"  continued 
the  old  man.  "It's  the  sills.  The  sills 
might  be  rotten." 

"I  have  examined  the  sills,"  replied  the 
School-teacher.  "The  sills  are  sound." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "fallin' 
weather's  comin*  on.  I  think  the  school 
had  better  stop  anyway." 

He  turned  a  little  and  put  his  stick  out 
on  the  path  into  the  leaves  as  though  he 
would  go  down  the  hill  a  shorter  way  to 
the  road. 

The  School-teacher  read  his  intent  in 
the  moving  of  the  cane. 

"You  would  better  stay  in  the  path," 
156 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

he  said.    "If  you  get  out  of  the  path  you 
will  fall." 

The  old  man  turned  back  into  the  path 
before  the  School-teacher. 

There  was  come  now  a  certain  dogged 
expression  into  his  face. 

"If  you  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "there's 
been  some  complaint  about  you." 

"Who  has  complained  of  me?"  said  the 
School-teacher. 

"Good  men  have  complained." 

"What  good  men?" 

"Why,  men  as  good  as  the  minister. 
WTiy,  men  as  good  as  the  doctor." 

Then  he  looked  out  sharp  at  the  School- 
teacher. 

"Ain't   that   hussy,    Yaller   Mag,    up 
there  with  you  at  Nicholas  Parks'  house?" 

The   School-teacher  regarded  the  old 
man  standing  before  him. 

"Do  you  think  *his  woman  ought  to  be 
sent  away?" 

157 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"Then  some  one  ought  to  tell  her  to 
go." 

"Yes,  they  ought." 

"It's  a  difficult  thing  to  do,"  said  the 
S  chool-teacher . 

"To  find  some  one  to  tell  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  School-teacher,  "that  is 
it,  to  find  some  one  to  tell  her." 

"If  that's  all,"  said  the  old  man,  "I'm 
goin'  home  by  Nicholas  Park's  house, 
that's  my  shortest  way.  I'll  stop  an'  tell 
her  myself." 

"But  have  you  thought  how  difficult  it 
will  be  to  tell  her?"  inquired  the  School- 
teacher. 

"What's  the  trouble  about  tellin'  her?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  School-teacher,  his 

eyes   resting  on  the   old  man's   swollen 

scrofuletic  leg,  "the  trouble  is  that  the 

one  who  goes  to  tell  her  ought  to  be  bet- 

158 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ter  than  she  is.  He  ought,  himself,  to 
have  lived  a  clean  life.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
have,  perhaps  you  can  tell  her." 

The  old  man  thought  that  the  School- 
teacher saw  something  lying  on  the 
ground,  for  he  stooped  over  and  his  finger 
moved  in  the  dust  of  the  path.  And 
while  he  remained  thus,  the  old  man  hur- 
ried along  to  the  road.  The  mare  stood 
facing  in  the  direction  of  the  way  over 
the  mountain  by  Nicholas  Parks'  house. 

The  old  man  took  her  by  the  bridle  and 
turned  her  around  in  the  road. 

Then  he  climbed  slowly  into  the  creak- 
ing cart.  He  looked  back  when  he  had 
got  his  big  bulk  on  the  folded  bedquilt. 
The  School-teacher  was  standing  upright 
where  he  had  passed  him  in  the  path.  The 
old  man  put  his  hand  on  the  corner  of  the 
seat  and  turned  heavily  about. 

"There's  another  thing,"  he  said.  "I'd 
159 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

like  to  know  why  you're  always  carryin' 
that  bastard  brat  around  with  you." 

Then  he  drove  away,  but  not  on  the 
road  that  crossed  the  mountain  by  Nicho- 
las Park's  house. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LL  day  long  the  little  boy  was 
with  the  School-teacher.  The 
child  and  the  dog  watched  for  the 
man  to  come  out  of  the  forest  in  the  morn- 
ing. When  the  dog  barked,  the  little  boy 
would  say: 

"Nim,  see  Teacher." 
The  woman  standing  before  the  door 
watched  for  the  three  of  them  to  come  out 
of  the  forest  in  the  evening.    She  listened 
for  the  laughter,  the  voices,  the  barking 
of  the  dog.     The  sense  of  perfect  under- 
standing among  the  three  of  them  was  to 
her  a  perpetual  wonder.     The  child  had 
only  a  few  words,  the  dog  had  none.    How 
161 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

could  the  man  know  so  well,  what  they 
meant?  It  was  a  wonder  that  she  turned 
about,  and  at  last,  out  of  the  deeps  of  her 
own  feelings,  she  got  an  answer  that  she 
held  to. 

"If  you  love  a  thing  enough,  it's  goin* 
to  understand  you." 

The  relation  of  the  School-teacher  to 
this  tiniest  child  was  also  that  of  his  re- 
lation to  every  other  one.  The  sense  of 
it  spread  throughout  the  school.  This 
school  became  a  family.  What  the  cheer- 
less home  withheld,  it  gave.  No  child 
could  have  told  one  what  that  was. 

The  teacher  understood  him,  would 
have  been  the  answer. 

The  School-teacher  required  no  built- 
up  explanations,  he  required  no  justifica- 
tion of  one's  act  by  the  unfamiliar  stand- 
ards of  another,  he  required  no  trick,  no 
artifice,  no  pretending,  to  get  on  with. 

To  the  question,  "What  is  he  like?"  a 
162 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

little  boy  had  answered,  "Why,  just  like 
me." 

For  some  time  there  had  been  a  secret 
in  the  school. 

The  School-teacher  had  talked  with 
every  child  apart.  The  talk  had  been  con- 
fidential. The  School-teacher  had  spoken 
with  each  one,  even  the  tiniest,  as  with  an 
equal.  He  had  spoken  with  him  from  day 
to  day  as  the  occasion  arose.  It  was  the 
way  of  this  secret  to  make  the  child  with 
whom  he  talked  for  a  time  unhappy.  But 
as  the  School-teacher  continued  each  day 
to  strengthen  him,  to  show  him  how  much 
he  depended  on  him,  and  to  blow  on  the 
embers  of  his  courage,  he  came  at  length 
to  carry  the  secret  with  equanimity. 

On  Thursday  evening  this  secret  be- 
came the  common  property  of  all.  The 
School-teacher  was  going  away!  There 
would  be  no  more  school! 

On  this  afternoon  the  School-teacher 
163 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

had  again  talked  with  each  child  apart, 
told  him  that  the  time  of  which  he  had 
spoken  had  now  come,  and  called  upon 
him  for  the  evidence  of  his  courage.  But, 
in  spite  of  all,  when  the  hour  arrived,  the 
school  broke  down.  It  left  the  little 
benches  and  gathered  around  the  School- 
teacher. For  a  moment  the  School- 
teacher hesitated,  before  the  group  of  wet 
faces,  then,  one  by  one,  he  took  each  child 
up  in  his  arms,  carried  him  to  the  window 
and  told  him  something.  Something 
which  he  had  not  told  him  before. 
No  one,  outside  of  the  school,  knew 
exactly  what  it  was.  But  each  child  com- 
ing from  the  School-teacher's  arms  was 
strengthened,  and  set  out  for  his  home, 
the  tears  drying  on  his  sturdy  little  face. 
An  idea  of  what  this  something  was,  af- 
terwards arose.  A  little  boy  had  said, 
"Everybody's  a-goin'  to  live  at  the 
School-teacher's  house."  But  he  was  in 
164 


TU".  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  ex  remity  of  illness  when  he  said  it, 
and  they  thought  he  spoke  in  delirium. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  the  School- 
teacher left  the  schoolhouse.  He  was  ac- 
companied by  the  two  children,  Martha 
and  David.  The  dog  Jim  went  before 
him  and  he  carried  the  tiny  boy  on  his 
shoulder.  They  went  along  the  road  to 
the  river,  crossed  on  the  stones  and  as- 
cended the  mountain.  The  little  boy  fell 
asleep,  his  arms  around  the  School- 
teacher's neck. 

The  two  children  walked  beside  the 
man. 

For  the  most  part  they  were  silent. 
Finally  they  came  to  the  little  clearing. 
The  children  stopped  in  the  road,  and  the 
man  went  up  onto  the  cabin  porch,  the 
little  sleeping  boy  in  his  arms.  The 
woman  at  work  in  the  kitchen,  hearing  the 
footsteps,  came  out  to  the  door.  When 
she  saw  who  it  was,  she  was  surprised. 
165 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"School's  out  early  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  School-teacher. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"It's  the  last  day  of  the  school." 

"Won't  there  be  any  more  school?" 

"No." 

The  woman's  lips  trembled.  "Then, 
then  .  .  ."  she  said,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"Mary,"  said  the  School-teacher,  "have 
you  forgotten  what  I  told  you?" 

The  woman  sobbed, 

"But  it's  come  so  soon." 

Then  she  looked  at  the  little  boy  sleep- 
ing in  the  School-teacher's  arms  and  the 
tears  streamed  down  her  face. 

"Now,  what'll  I  do?"  she  said.  "Now, 
what'll  I  do?  He'll  set  there  by  the  door, 
him  an'  Jim,  an'  he'll  look  for  you  every 
morning,  an'  whenever  Jim  barks  he'll 
say  'Nim  see  Teacher,'  but  he  won't  never 
see  you." 

166 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

"Yes,"  replied  the  School-teacher,  "he 
will  see  me  again." 

"Then  you  won't  be  so  awful  far  away?" 

"I  shall  never  be  very  far  away  from 
him." 

Then  he  put  the  sleeping  child  into  the 
woman's  arms. 

"Don't  wa.se  him,"  he  said,  "and  don't 
cry.  Remember,  Mary,  that  if  he  should 
go  with  me,  then  he  could  not  stay  with 

you." 

He  went  down  the  road,  and  with  the 
two  children  beside  him,  passed  on  along 
the  path.  They  went  by  the  spring,  with 
its  keg  sunk  in  the  earth,  and  up  the 
mountain  to  Nicholas  Parks'  house. 
There,  in  the  road,  they  found  the  woman 
with  the  yellow  hair,  feeding  the  chick- 
ens, a  measure  of  corn  in  her  apron. 

"You're  back  early,"  she  said. 

"It's  the  last  day  of  the  school,"  re- 
plied the  School-teacher. 
167 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  woman's  whole  body  was  con- 
vulsed. The  corn  spilled  out  of  her  apron. 
Then  she  fled  along  the  road,  and  up  the 
path  to  the  house.  At  the  door  she  stop- 
ped, turned  about,  and  then  huddled  down 
by  the  steps,  her  apron  over  her  head. 

The  School-teacher  bade  the  children 
await  him,  then  he  went  up  the  path. 
He  passed  by  the  woman  and  entered  the 
house.  Within  the  house,  he  went  over 
to  the  table  by  the  wall,  on  which  lay  a 
little,  worn,  broken  toy,  that  had  once 
been  a  wooden  horse,  a  top  whittled  out  of 
a  spool,  a  brass  ring  with  its  cotton  rib- 
bon, a  Barlow  knife,  and  little  bunches 
of  wild  flowers.  These  he  took  up,  one 
by  one,  and  put  into  the  bosom  of  his 
coat.  Then  he  came  out  and  closed  the 
door.  As  he  passed,  the  woman  put  out 
her  hand  and  touched  him.  And  he  stop- 
ped. For  a  moment  he  stood  looking 
down  at  the  woman  sobbing  at  his  feet, 
168 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  apron  over  her  head.    Then  he  spoke. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  "is  this  how  you 
will  keep  your  promise  to  me?" 

Then  he  went  down  the  path,  and,  ac- 
companied by  the  two  children,  followed 
the  road  along  the  ridge  to  the  little  path 
descending  the  mountain  toward  the  mill. 
As  the  School-teacher  walked  he  endeav- 
ored to  strengthen  and  encourage  the  two 
children.  He  bade  them  remember  what 
he  had  said,  and  not  to  cry.  They  man- 
aged not  to  cry  when  he  left  them  at  the 
point  where  the  path  entered  the  road  be- 
low. But  when  he  was  gone  out  of  their 
sight  and  hearing,  in  the  direction  of  the 
schoolhouse,  they  held  to  each  other  and 
wept. 

They  stood  for  a  long  time,  there,  in 
tears,  holding  to  one  another.  Then  they 
heard  sounds  approaching  and  hid  them- 
selves. Two  men  rode  past  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  schoolhouse.  One  of  them  car- 
169 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ried  a  rifle  across  the  saddle  before  him. 

A  great  fear  fell  on  the  two  children  and 
they  followed  at  a  distance.  They  saw 
the  two  men  dismount  before  the  school- 
house,  knock  on  the  door  and  enter.  Af- 
ter a  while  they  came  out  with  the  School- 
teacher. 

They  got  on  their  horses  and,  with  the 
School-teacher  walking  between  them, 
set  out  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of 
the  town. 


CHAPTER  XV 

HE    several   influerces   moving 
against  the  School-teacher,  hav- 
ing formed  a  conjunction,  at  last 
determined  to  act. 

On  Wednesday  night,  in  the  church  at 
the  county  seat,  two  persons  attended  the 
minister's  mid-weekly  meeting,  who  were 
not  members  of  the  congregation.  These 
two  persons,  the  sheriff  and  the  doctor, 
sat  on  the  last  bench  nearest  the  door. 
When  the  service  was  concluded  and  the 
congregation  withdrew,  these  two  persons 
remained  with  the  minister.  The  three  of 
them  moved  up  to  the  table  before  the 
altar,  where  there  was  a  small  oil  lamp. 
171 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

They  remained  for  a  long  time  in  confer- 
ence around  this  table. 

It  seemed  that  the  minister's  efforts  to 
get  rid  of  the  School-teacher  by  prevail- 
ing on  the  trustee  to  close  the  schoolhouse, 
had  not  succeeded. 

The  school  went  on  in  spite  of  the 
notice. 

And  now  some  more  effective  measures 
must  be  found.  The  sheriff,  when  the 
minister  informed  him  of  the  occupancy 
of  Nicholas  Parks'  estate  by  this  stranger, 
had  caused  a  proceeding  to  be  instituted 
in  the  circuit  court,  and  had  obtained  an 
order  restraining  any  one  from  entering 
on  the  lands  of  Nicholas  Parks  until  the 
right  of  the  state  thereto  could  be  deter- 
mined. This  order  had  been  posted  on  the 
door  of  Nicholas  Parks'  house.  But  this 
order,  like  the  one  on  the  door  of  the 
schoolhouse,  the  stranger  had  not  re- 
garded. 

172 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

It  was  evident  that  a  firmer  step  must 
be  taken. 

Two  plans  were  available.  As  the 
School-teacher  had  continued  to  remain 
on  Nicholas  Parks'  lands  after  the  re- 
straining order  had  been  posted  on  the 
door,  the  sheriff  could  apply  to  the  cir- 
cuit judge  for  a  rule  and  cause  him  to  be 
brought  before  the  court  and  imprisoned 
for  contempt.  The  second  plan  was  for 
the  doctor  to  go  before  a  justice  of  the 
peace  and  take  out  a  warrant  against  the 
School-teacher  charging  him  with  practic- 
ing medicine  without  a  license. 

These  two  plans  were  now  under  dis- 
cussion in  the  empty,  dimly  lighted 
church. 

The  little  hand  oil  lamps  had  been  put 

out  except  one  on  a  wooden  bracket  by  the 

door,  and  the  one  smoking  on  the  table 

before  the  altar.    The  silence,  the  empty 

173 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

church,  or  something  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  place,  caused  the  men  to  draw  to- 
gether and  to  discuss  the  matter  in  un- 
dertones. 

The  minister  sat  with  his  back  to  the 
altar. 

On  the  bench  beside  him  was  his  hat 
containing  the  money  which  he  had  col- 
lected from  the  congregation  at  the  close 
of  the  service.  On  either  side  were  the 
doctor  and  the  sheriff.  The  latter's  big 
hump  now  prominent  as  he  leaned  over 
the  table.  The  minister  led  the  discussion, 
and  they  remained  for  some  time  thus, 
in  conference.  The  minister's  defective 
eye,  batting,  the  doctor's  crooked  arm  on 
the  table,  and  the  sheriff's  back  throwing 
its  humped  shadow  against  the  wall. 

Finally    it    was    determined    that    the 

sheriff    should   go   before    the    court    on 

Thursday  and  obtain  the  rule  upon  which 

the  School-teacher  could  be  arrested  and 

174 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

brought  down  out  of  the  mountain.  At 
the  same  time  the  doctor  should  take  out 
his  warrant  before  the  justice  of  the  peace, 
so  it  might  be  available  in  case  the  circuit 
judge  should  not  commit  the  School- 
teacher upon  the  proceeding  for  con- 
tempt. 

This  plan  having  been  settled  upon,  it 
became  necessary  to  consider  how  the  ar- 
rest should  be  made. 

The  sheriff  could  send  his  deputy,  who 
served  legal  papers  in  the  county,  but  the 
deputy  had  never  seen  the  School-teacher 
and  did  not  know  him.  And,  besides  this, 
if  the  School-teacher  resisted,  and  those 
about  him  should  come  to  his  support, 
there  might  be  considerable  trouble  to 
take  him.  One  man  conducting  a  prisoner 
through  the  mountains  in  the  night  might 
easily  be  compelled  to  release  him.  More- 
over, the  deputy,  knowing  the  danger  of 
making  an  arrest  in  the  mountain  dis- 
175 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

tricts,  could  not  be  got  to  go  up  alone. 

A  discussion  of  who  should  be  found 
to  assist  the  deputy  then  arose.  No  one 
could  be  thought  of  except  Jonas  Black, 
a  worthless  hanger-on  about  the  village. 
This  man  was  the  son  of  Jerry  Black, 
whose  eye  the  School-teacher  had  cured. 

He  had  been  the  sheriff's  driver  on  the 
occasion  of  that  official's  interview  with 
the  School-teacher.  He  was  familiar 
with  the  mountains,  and  it  was  thought 
less  likely  to  be  resisted,  since  he  was  one 
of  the  mountain  people.  He  knew  the 
School-teacher.  It  was  said  that  for  a 
time  he  had  hung  about  him,  hoping  to  be 
employed  to  go  from  house  to  house  and 
collect  the  School-teacher's  salary,  until 
he  discovered  to  his  astonishment,  that 
this  stranger  was  charging  nothing  for  his 
service. 

The  sheriff  rose  and  went  out  into  the 
village  to  seek  this  man,  while  the  others 
176 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

awaited  his  return.  The  sheriff  was  not 
gone  very  long.  He  presently  entered 
the  church  with  another.  This  man  had 
a  curious  deep  red  birthmark  covering  the 
entire  side  of  his  face.  He  came  up  the 
church  aisle  behind  the  sheriff,  stepping 
softly  and  glancing  furtively  about  him. 
He  slipped  into  a  seat  before  the  table 
facing  the  altar,  and  remained  there  shift- 
ing his  hat  in  his  fingers. 

The  sheriff  took  his  place  at  the  table. 

"I  found  Jonas,"  he  said. 

The  minister  looked  across  the  table  at 
the  man. 

"Will  you  go?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  replied  the  man,  "if  I 
git  paid  enough  for  it." 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  said  the 
minister. 

"Well,"  replied  the  man,  "it  ought  to 
be  worth  about  five  dollars." 

The  three  men  at  the  table  protested. 
177 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  sum  was  excessive.  The  sheriff  would 
provide  a  horse.  The  journey  would  not 
take  longer  than  one  night.  Besides, 
there  was  no  way  by  which  the  fees  of  a 
deputy,  for  such  service,  could  be  made  to 
aggregate  that  sum.  The  man  persisted, 
and,  while  the  sheriff  considered  how  the 
sum  allowed  under  the  law  could  be  aug- 
mented, the  minister  bargained.  The  man 
finally  reduced  his  demand  to  three  dol- 
lars. And  the  sheriff,  seeing  now  a  plan 
by  which  an  additional  charge  could  be  of- 
ficially added,  said: 

"There  are  a  couple  of  bad  characters 
in  the  jail,  held  to  the  grand  jury  for 
breaking  into  a  store.  They  may  try  to 
give  me  some  trouble.  Now,  if  you  would 
watch  the  jail  for  a  few  nights,  I  might 
manage  to  get  that  fee  for  you." 

"Well,"  replied  the  man,  "I'd  sorter 
keep  an  eye  on  the  jail  for  a  night  or  two. 
I  wouldn't  mind  doin'  that.  But  I  won't 
178 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

wait  for  my  money.  I  won't  take  it  in 
costs." 

"How  soon  will  you  want  it?"  inquired 
the  sheriff. 

"Right  now,"  said  the  man. 

"I  couldn't  give  it  to  you  to-night,"  re- 
plied the  sheriff. 

The  man  got  up. 

"Then  I  won't  go,"  he  said. 

An  idea  occurred  to  the  minister.  He 
turned  around,  picked  up  his  hat,  contain- 
ing the  recent  collection,  and  placed  it  on 
the  table.  He  whispered  a  moment  to 
the  others,  then  he  spoke  to  the  man. 

"I'll  pay  you  the  money,"  he  said. 

He  began  to  count  it  out  on  the  table. 
The  money  from  the  collection  was  in 
small  silver  coins  and  he  selected  the 
largest  of  them.  He  leaned  over  the 
table,  his  fingers  in  the  hat,  his  defective 
eye  close  to  the  lamp. 

And  the  man  standing  before  the  altar, 
179 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

one  half  of  his  face  in  the  shadow,  one  half 
discolored  by  the  crimson  birthmark  dim- 
ly in  the  light,  received  the  money.  Two 
dollars  and  sixty  cents  in  ten-cent  pieces, 
three  five-cent  pieces,  and  one  twenty- 
five  cent  piece. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HEY  took  the  School-teacher 
into  the  courthouse  early  in  the 
morning. 

The  county  seat  of  this  mountain  coun- 
ty was  nothing  more  than  a  village,  lying 
in  the  foothills.  The  courthouse  stood  in 
a  grove  of  oak  trees,  in  the  middle  of  the 
village.  It  was  a  two-story  structure. 
On  the  ground  floor  was  the  jail  in  the 
custody  of  the  sheriff. 

The  second  floor  was  the  courthouse. 
This  second  story  was  entered  exclu- 
sively from  without.     Broad  stone  steps 
led  up  to  a  portico,  on  which  stood  round, 
plaster-covered    pillars    supporting    the 
181 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

projecting  roof.  On  either  side,  entering 
between  these  pillars,  were  the  offices  of 
the  county  and  circuit  clerks.  Beyond 
was  the  court  room  filled  with  benches. 
A  portion  of  this  room  at  the  farther  end 
was  separated  from  the  benches  by  a  rail- 
ing. Within  it  were  chairs  and  two  tables 
for  attorneys,  a  desk  for  the  clerk,  and  a 
raised  platform,  ascended  by  steps  on 
either  side,  for  the  judge. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  judges  travel- 
ing on  these  mountain  circuits  to  open 
court  as  early  as  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  before  that,  if  they  were 
come  into  the  court  room,  to  hear  infor- 
mally motions  and  the  like. 

When  they  brought  the  School-teacher 
into  the  courthouse,  the  sheriff,  the  doc- 
tor, the  minister,  the  old  trustee  who  had 
ridden  down  out  of  the  mountains  in  his 
cart,  were  already  there. 

The  deputy  and  Jonas  led  the  School- 
182 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

teacher  inside  the  railing.  Then  they  sat 
down.  The  School-teacher  remained 
standing. 

The  hearing  before  the  circuit  judge 
followed  the  informal  custom  of  these 
mountain  circuits. 

The  School-teacher  made  no  defense. 

He  stood  before  the  bench.  The  early 
sunlight  of  the  morning,  entering  through 
the  high  windows,  fell  on  his  face,  on  his 
soft  brown  hair,  on  his  deep  gray-blue 
eyes,  on  his  clothing  covered  with  the  dust 
of  the  road. 

The  judge  heard  the  oral  evidence  in 
open  court.  He  inquired  into  the  ser- 
vice of  the  restraining  order,  and  the 
prisoner's  subsequent  disregard  of  it. 
But  he  was  not  convinced.  The  prison- 
er's conduct  seemed  inconsistent  with  an 
intent  to  resist  the  State's  title  to  these 
lands.  Moreover,  the  silence,  the  calm  de- 
meanor, the  strange  personality  of  the 
183 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

prisoner,  profoundly  impressed  him.  He 
felt  that  some  ulterior  motive  lay  behind 
the  cover  of  this  accusation. 

At  this  moment  a  woman  appeared  at 
the  door  of  the  courthouse  and  sent  in 
a  note  to  the  judge.  This  note  was  sealed 
in  an  envelope  and  addressed  in  a  fine 
hand.  The  judge  opened  it  at  once. 
When  he  had  read  it,  he  sat  for  some  time 
looking  down  at  the  prisoner.  He  did 
not  believe  in  dreams;  but  the  insistence 
of  his  wife  impressed  him. 

He  turned  to  the  sheriff,  and  inquired 
if  there  was  a  man  in  the  courtroom  who 
knew  anything  about  the  prisoner. 

The  sheriff  indicated  the  others  near 
him. 

"Yes,  Your  Honor,"  he  replied,  "the 
minister,  the  school  trustee  of  that  district, 
and  the  doctor  here,  all  know  about  him. 
He  seems  to  have  made  himself  generally 
troublesome  to  the  community.  I  believe 
184 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  justice  of  the  peace  had  issued  a  war- 
rant against  him  for  practicing  medicine 
without  a  license." 

When  the  circuit  judge  heard  of  this 
action  of  the  justice,  he  ordered  the 
School-teacher  to  be  taken  before  that  of- 
ficial. He  said  that  if  the  justice  of  the 
peace  has  issued  a  warrant  antedating 
the  rule,,  he  would  yield  to  him  the  cus- 
tody of  the  prisoner. 

They  took  the  School-teacher  out  of 
the  courthouse  and  across  the  village 
street  to  the  office  of  the  justice  of  the 
peace. 

The  justice  was  greatly  pleased  when 
the  deputy  and  Jonas  came  in  with  the 
prisoner.  A  good  many  stories  had  drifted 
down  from  the  mountains  to  him  concern- 
ing the  miraculous  cures  which  this  man 
had  effected,  and  he  was  anxious  to  see 
him.  He  removed  his  spectacles,  put  them 
carefully  into  a  tin  case,  set  his  feet  on 
185 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

the  rounds  of  a  chair  and,  after  having 
thus  made  himself  comfortable,  he  re- 
quested the  School-teacher  to  explain  to 
him  in  detail,  exactly  how  he  had  accom- 
plished the  marvels  of  which  he  had  heard. 

The  School-teacher  did  not  reply. 

He  remained  standing  as  he  had  stood 
before  the  circuit  judge.  His  head  lifted. 
The  features  of  his  face  unmoving.  His 
deep  gray-blue  eyes  filled  with  a  tranquil, 
melancholy  light. 

When  the  justice  of  the  peace  saw 
that  his  curiosity  was  not  likely  to  be 
gratified,  he,  at  once,  sent  the  prisoner 
back  to  the  circuit  judge.  He  took  this 
act  of  the  judge  to  be  a  delicate  courtesy, 
a  tender  regard  for  the  jurisdictional 
rights  of  an  inferior  tribunal,  and  he  was 
not  to  be  outdone.  In  several  instances 
the  circuit  judge  had  recently  curtailed 
his  jurisdiction,  and  he  had  been  smarting 
under  it.  This  act  was  a  friendly  over- 
186 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

ture,  and  he  hastened  to  evidence  his  ap- 
preciation of  it. 

He  returned  the  prisoner,  saying  that 
as  his  warrant  had  not  been  served,  his 
jurisdiction  had  not  attached,  and  the 
prisoner  was  exclusively  in  the  custody 
of  the  circuit  court.  Moreover,  that  he 
would  hold  his  warrant  in  abeyance  until 
the  circuit  court  had  disposed  of  the  case. 

When  the  School-teacher  came  again 
before  the  circuit  judge,  that  official  no 
longer  hesitated  to  indicate  his  opinion. 
He  said  that  the  prisoner  did  not  seem 
disposed  to  contest  the  state's  title  to  these 
lands,  that  he  appeared  to  have  taken  up 
his  residence  in  Nicholas  Parks'  house 
anterior  to  the  date  of  the  order,  and  upon 
some  verbal  direction  of  the  decedent ;  that 
while  there  was  here  perhaps  a  technical 
contempt,  he  was  not  certain  that  it  was 
intended,  and  consequently  that  he  was 
disposed  to  dismiss  the  prisoner. 
187 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

The  minister,  the  sheriff,  the  doctor, 
the  old  school  trustee,  under  this  informal 
procedure,  came  forward  with  a  protest. 
They  said  that  the  School-teacher  was  a 
person  dangerous  to  the  commuity;  that 
he  had  set  himself  against  the  authority  of 
the  state  in  disregarding  the  order  of  the 
court;  that  he  had  set  himself  against  the 
authority  of  the  county  by  disregarding 
the  notice  placed  on  the  schoolhouse  door; 
that  he  had  openly  violated  the  law  in  prac- 
ticing medicine  without  a  license;  that  he 
harbored  immoral  persons,  and  encour- 
aged the  children  in  acts  of  irreverence. 

The  judge  endeavored  to  compromise 
with  this  opposition.  He  said  that  he 
would  reprimand  the  prisoner,  suspend 
sentence  and  release  him  on  his  own 
recognizance. 

The  general  protest  now  took  on  a  defi- 
nite form.  The  minister  spoke  for  the 
others.  He  was  little  accustomed  to  the 
188 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

diplomacy  of  the  advocate  and  he  thinly 
disguised  the  threat  that  was  the  tenor  of 
this  speech.  He  said  that  one  in  the  po- 
sition of  a  circuit  judge  ought  to  sustain 
the  better  elements  of  the  community  in 
their  efforts  to  get  rid  of  an  undesirable 
person;  that  the  will  of  the  people  was 
not  lightly  to  be  disregarded ;  that  the  ob- 
ject  of  making  offices  elective  was  that 
one  who  refused  to  consider  what  the  peo- 
ple desired  might  be  replaced  by  another; 
and  the  like. 

The  judge  came  up  presently  for  re- 
election. It  was  notice  to  him  that  the 
powerful  elements  which  these  protesting 
persons  represented  would  hold  him  to 
account.  The  strength  of  his  political 
party  lay  in  these  mountain  counties.  He 
required  the  support  of  these  elements. 
And  he  especially  feared  a  sectarian  sen- 
timent against  him.  He  knew  the  danger 
of  such  a  sentiment;  and  how  little,  once 
189 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

on  its  way,  explanations  would  avail. 
This  covert  threat  angered  the  judge,  but 
he  feared  to  resist  it.  He  dipped  his  pen 
into  the  inkpot  before  him,  and  wrote  an 
order  committing  the  prisoner  to  the 
county  jail.  Then  he  handed  it  down  to 
the  sheriff. 

The  persons  standing  about  the  sheriff 
drew  near  to  him  and  read  the  order.  The 
minister  and  the  school  trustee  objected 
to  something  in  the  body  of  the  writing, 
and  the  sheriff  went  with  them  to  the 
judge. 

They  pointed  out  that  the  order  di- 
rected the  commitment  of  the  "School- 
teacher of  Hickory  Mountain  District," 
that  this  term  was  incorrect,  that  the  pris- 
oner had  not  been  employed  by  the  trus- 
tees, that  he  was  not  the  School-teacher 
of  Hickory  Mountain  District,  and  that 
the  order  ought  not  so  to  designate  him. 
190 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

But  the  judge,  smarting  under  the  lash 
that  had  been  laid  on  him,  was  in  no  mood 
to  receive  a  further  dictation. 

He  refused  to  change  what  he  had  writ- 
ten. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

U)  HE  several  persons  who  had 
forced  the  judge  to  commit  the 
School-teacher  to  the  county  jail, 
having  gone  down  from  the  courthouse, 
remained  throughout  the  day  in  confer- 
ence. It  was  evident  that  the  circuit 
judge  had  acted  against  his  own  inclina- 
tion, and  that  he  could  not  be  depended 
upon  to  hold  the  prisoner  in  custody. 
Some  other  method  for  ridding  the  com- 
munity of  this  undesirable  person  must  be 
found.  Finally,  after  long  reflection, 
they  hit  upon  a  plan. 
Night  descended. 

In  the  village  saloon,  beyond  the  grove 
192 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

of  oak  trees  behind  the  courthouse,  the 
man  who  had  received  the  money  from 
the  minister  sat  playing  at  cards.  A  rifle 
stood  in  the  corner  behind  him.  From 
time  to  time  he  arose,  took  up  the  rifle 
and  went  to  the  door.  Keeping  thus,  in 
his  fashion,  an  agreement  which  the  sheriff 
had  forgotten. 

The  night  advanced. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  sheriff  went  down 
into  the  jail.  He  carefully  unfastened  the 
door  opening  into  the  grove  of  oak  trees. 
Then  he  came  along  the  corridor  to  the 
one  iron  cage  that  the  jail  contained.  The 
door  to  this  cage  he  likewise  carefully  un- 
locked. On  a  bedtick  filled  with  straw, 
two  men,  convicted  of  larceny,  were  ap- 
parently asleep  beside  this  door.  On  a 
bench  against  the  wall  behind  them  sat 
the  School-teacher.  His  hat  with  its  lit- 
tle crimson  feather  lay  beside  him.  He 
sat  unmoving,  looking  at  something  in 
193 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

his  hand.  When  he  observed  the  sheriff, 
he  put  the  thing  which  he  held  in  his  hand 
back  into  the  bosom  of  his  coat.  It  was 
the  broken  toy  horse  which  the  little  boy 
had  given  him.  The  sheriff  beckoned  with 
his  finger. 

The  School-teacher  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  at  the  man,  but  he  did  not  move 
from  his  place  against  the  wall. 

The  sheriff  stepped  delicately  past  the 
men,  whom  he  believed  to  be  asleep,  and 
approached  the  School-teacher. 

"The  door's  open,"  he  said,  "y°u  can 
get  out  of  the  county  before  it's  daylight." 

The  School-teacher  did  not  reply,  and 
the  sheriff  went  noiselessly  out.  Present- 
ly the  two  men  got  up  from  their  pre- 
tended sleep  and  slipped  out  of  the  cage. 
The  School-teacher  rose  and  spoke  to 
them.  But  they  crept  down  the  corridor. 
He  followed.  He  came  upon  them  as 
they  opened  the  door  leading  out  of  the 
194 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

jail  into  the  grove,  stepped  between  them 
in  the  door  and  thrust  them  back.  The 
act  saved  the  men's  lives,  but  it  cost  the 
School-teacher  his  own. 

There  was  the  flash  of  a  rifle  from  the 
saloon  beyond  the  oak  trees,  and  the 
School-teacher  fell  forward,  his  arms  out- 
stretched. 

In  the  evening  some  women  and  chil- 
dren from  the  mountains  came  to  the  cir- 
cuit judge  and  asked  him  for  the  body  of 
the  School-teacher.  He  gave  it  to  them, 
and  at  night  they  took  it  away. 

An  ox,  led  by  a  little  boy,  bore  the  body, 
and  women  walking  beside  it  supported  it 
with  their  hands. 

They  traveled  back  into  the  mountains. 

And  at  daybreak  they  laid  the  body  in 

a  grave  which  they  had  made  between  the 

two  great  hickories  on  the  ridge  beyond 

Nicholas  Parks'  house.     They  lined  the 

195 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

grave  with  bright-colored  leaves,  and 
wrapped  the  body  in  that  piece  of  linen 
which  the  School-teacher  had  bade  the 
miller  keep  for  him  until  he  should  need 
it.  The  hands  of  women  and  children 
filled  the  grave  with  earth.  Then  they 
went  away  down  the  mountain,  toward 
the  mill,  leaving  a  woman  crouched  beside 
the  grave.  Her  apron  covering  her  yel- 
low hair.  Her  body  rocking. 

It  was  morning. 

They  went  down  the  mountain,  the  boy 
and  the  ox,  the  little  girl,  the  two  re- 
maining women — one  of  them  carrying 
a  tiny  sleeping  boy  wrapped  in  a  shawl, 
a  dog  beside  her. 

On  a  bench  of  the  mountain  below, 
where  a  tree,  uprooted  by  the  wind,  lay 
with  its  broken  trunk  pointing  toward 
the  ridge,  they  stopped  and  looked  back. 
As  they  looked,  the  sun  arose,  a  disc  of 
gold  between  the  two  great  hickories. 
196 


The  Mountain  School-Teacher 

With  a  wild  barking,  the  dog  leaped  onto 
the  fallen  trunk,  ran  out  to  the  projecting 
end  of  it,  and  stood  there  looking  toward 
the  sun. 

The  tiny  boy  moved  in  his  mother's 
arms. 

"Nim  see  Teacher,"  he  said. 


(i) 


A     000120036    9 


